Doorway
by Sita Z
Summary: Trip and Malcolm crash the shuttlepod on an uninhabited planet, and soon discover that they aren’t as alone as they thought.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise, no infringement is intended etc etc.

Author's Note: I can't believe it's finally finished (started writing this in July 2007, I think)! I'd like to thank my betas Gabi and Romanse for their support and encouragement, and most of all for their patience! If not for them, this would still be gathering dust in my WIP folder...

Please let me know what you think! Feedback is like chocolate, and chocolate is a major writing boost, so... J

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1

The deck under him was rocking gently. It was the first thing he noticed as he slowly regained consciousness; a soft rocking, like a boat buoyed on a calm sea. It wasn't a feeling he liked or trusted, and he was awake in an instant. He wasn't in a boat. He was lying on the floor of the shuttlepod, and he should be dead, if odds and probabilities were to be believed.

Malcolm blinked. His head hurt, and he could feel the hard deck plating pressing into his cheek, could smell burned circuitry and hear, well, it sounded like waves gently splashing against the outside hull of the pod. He wasn't dead, that much was clear.

He blinked again and tried to move. There was pain, but not as much as he had expected, and he moved more confidently, pushing himself into a sitting position. Nothing seemed to be broken, which was another small miracle as far as odds and probabilities were concerned. He _should_ be lying crumpled in a corner with his limbs shattered. They had certainly been going down fast enough.

There was a muted sound somewhere behind him, and Malcolm turned his head. He was sitting on the floor in front of the helm, and so all he could see were the pilot chair and the science station to his right. The rocking was beginning to make him slightly nauseated, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then, he heard the sound again, and tried to get to his feet.

"Trip?"

There was no answer, and Malcolm grabbed the pilot chair to lever himself to his feet. It wasn't easy, with the deck careening under his feet and nausea roiling in his stomach, but he made it. Swaying and holding on to the chair with one hand, he surveyed the shuttle until he spotted a pair of blue-clad legs. The body belonging to the legs was hidden behind one of the benches in the back.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked again, although he knew that he wasn't going to get an answer. The sound he had heard, a very faint moan, almost a sigh, wasn't one a conscious person would make. At least not a person conscious enough to answer his query.

Malcolm began to make his way through the shuttle, slowly, dodging broken pieces of equipment and a sparking panel that was dangling precariously from the ceiling. The going wasn't easy, and he almost stumbled twice before he had reached the place where Trip had fallen.

Trip's upper body was squashed against the side of the bunk, and for one frozen moment, Malcolm believed that the Commander's neck was broken. Then, Trip moved his head; just a little, but enough for Malcolm to know that his cervical bones were probably still intact. It wasn't the spine that was the problem, he realized as he took a closer look at Trip's left leg. Blood was darkening the fabric, and from the odd angle at which his foot was tilted, it was obviously broken.

Malcolm knelt down on the deck next to Trip, grabbing the bench to steady himself against the swaying of the pod.

"Trip? Trip, can you hear me?"

Trip moaned again, which was answer enough for Malcolm.

Leaning over the bunk, he opened a side compartment to his left. The equipment inside was a jumbled mess, but at least none of it seemed to be damaged. Malcolm rummaged around until he found the small gray box that he knew contained emergency medical supplies.

"Just a moment, Trip." His hands shook, and he had to try twice until he managed to undo the seal on the kit. It was probably the adrenaline rush subsiding, or at least that was what he hoped. He couldn't really afford to have a concussion right now.

He took out the bio scanner and switched it on. It whirred faintly as he passed it over the unconscious man, and beeped when it picked up the injury to Trip's leg. The ankle was indeed broken, as were several of the smaller bones in Trip's foot. Something heavy must have collided with it during the crash, maybe even the toolbox that was lying a few feet away on the deck. Malcolm remembered Trip frantically trying to repair the suddenly dead engines, and quickly willed the image away. He didn't really want to remember those last panicky minutes before all hell had broken loose, or the look on Trip's face when he realized that there was nothing they could do.

"You're going to be all right," Malcolm told the man on the floor and even found a shaky smile. "Your foot's going to need to be treated, but other than that you're okay."

Except for a collection of bumps and bruises and a possibly contused rib, Malcolm added in his mind. He helped Trip to get more comfortable on the floor, then took a hypospray out of the medkit and adjusted it to two units of analgesic. He was about to inject it into Trip's neck when he hesitated. There were three hyposprays in the kit, each containing ten units of painkiller. It seemed unlikely that he would need to ration them; any minute now, Enterprise would try to contact them and arrange for a rescue party to take them back to the ship. All he needed to do was make sure Trip wasn't in any pain and his leg was stable until he could be taken to sickbay. Surely Malcolm could afford to use some of the analgesic as a measure of prevention.

Nodding as if to encourage himself, he pressed the button that would release the hypospray's contents into Trip's bloodstream. Trip sighed, and his breathing seemed to ease a little.

"There you go," Malcolm said as he laid the hypo aside. The bloodstain on Trip's uniform leg had spread during the last few minutes, and Malcolm decided that he needed to take care of the injury before anything else. His brain seemed to have been rattled quite a bit during the crash, and would only reluctantly adapt to the tactical thinking the situation called for. He had to try and contact Enterprise, and – as his instructor at the Academy would have been yelling in his face by now – he needed to secure the parameter, make sure that the shuttlepod was safe. Most importantly, he needed to straighten out the muddle in his mind and concentrate. Maybe smacking himself on the side of the head would help, if his hands weren't trembling so much.

Trip's leg. An injured member of the party always took precedence, he remembered that much. Willing his hands not to shake, he began to undo the laces of Trip's boot. Trip seemed to have a habit of not simply tying a loop, but knotting the laces several times as if he were afraid they would come undone and make him trip.

A sudden and quite unexpected giggle escaped Malcolm. Make Trip trip. That was actually quite funny.

Somehow, the giggle turned into something else and suddenly Malcolm found himself on all fours, retching violently. His stomach was mostly empty; he wasn't in the habit of eating much before an away mission. Hunger kept you alert, or so they said.

Malcolm spat, and when he was sure that the vomiting was over, turned back to the task of pulling off Trip's boot. The rocking deck didn't help his queasy stomach at all, and he became aware of a dull pain at the back of his head. So maybe he had a concussion, after all, but he could always pretend that he didn't. That usually worked quite well, at least for a while.

"I'm fine," Malcolm told Trip, who of course had no way of contradicting him. The boot came off after a bit of pulling and tugging, and Malcolm winced at the sight. There was a lot of blood, so much that some of it dripped out of the boot as he set it aside. Usually, a fractured bone wouldn't cause any bleeding, would it? At least no external bleeding.

Carefully, Malcolm began to roll the blood-soaked sock down over the broken ankle, which was swollen and purple, but didn't seem to be the source of the blood loss. He would have to stabilize it, Malcolm thought, and this time he did smack himself upside the head. This was not the time to be squeamish about an injury, especially not when he had seen far worse. The nausea sitting at the bottom of his throat would just have to wait.

Slapping himself seemed to help, and he managed to remove the sock from Trip's foot without any further incident. As he laid it aside, he saw that the ankle was indeed not the source of the bleeding. Trip's toes were... or what was left of them. The great toe looked as if someone had brought a sledgehammer down on it, leaving it crooked at an angle of almost ninety degrees. A piece of bone was protruding from the skin, looking strangely white and clean amongst all the blood. With the second and the third toes, the sledgehammer had been replaced with a blunt axe, and Malcolm had to gather all his willpower not to be sick again at the sight. The two toes weren't really there anymore, and in their place was a bloody pulp that didn't look as if it had once been a healthy part of a human body.

"Oh fucking hell," Malcolm whispered and it helped to hold the nausea at bay, at least for the moment. "Fucking, fucking hell."

No stabilizing to be done here; what he had to do was somehow stop the bleeding and then call Enterprise to arrange an emergency transport right away. He wasn't sure if a person could actually bleed to death from an injury to his foot, but from the amount of blood Trip was losing, it didn't seem all that unlikely. His hands trembling worse than before, Malcolm grabbed a roll of bandage from the emergency kit and tried to wrap it around the mashed toes. The result looked more like a child's attempt at bandaging a life-size doll than anything else, but at least it seemed to slow down the flow of blood. God, why couldn't he think clearly? Why hadn't he contacted Enterprise right after he had woken up? Because he had needed to look after Trip first, that was why, his own mind answered angrily. But he had to call them now.

Biting down hard on his lip to keep from retching, Malcolm stumbled to his feet and over to the communications console. Most of the displays were still lit, so chances were that it wasn't broken. Keeping his eyes lowered so all he would see was the console, he tried to enter the sequence that would hail Enterprise, and found that he had to aim for each key with his index finger instead of touch typing as he usually did. Malcolm rested his forehead on his hands as he waited for the crackling that usually preceded the answering channel being opened.

It didn't come. Malcolm hit the call button again; maybe he hadn't caught it right in his first attempt. There was no change. He frowned. Maybe the console was broken after all, even though the displays still seemed to work.

They would've tried to call us long ago, he thought, and it took his bleary mind a moment to understand the implications of this. Enterprise hadn't tried to hail them, not after they had exchanged that last, panicky call shortly before the shuttle went down on a rapid descent. Archer's voice had barked something unintelligible before it was cut off, and after that, nothing. Which meant that communication must be permanently damaged. It was just his luck that they had no communicators; their mission had been to perform a close-up sweep of the planet's stratosphere, and there was no need to take communicators if no one was going to leave the shuttlepod.

Well, but Enterprise had seen them go down, so the rescue team should be arriving soon. Until then, Malcolm could do little but sit tight and hope for the best.

His eyes had been traveling aimlessly across the shuttle's damaged interior, and for the first time he happened to glance at one of the hatch windows.

Water. A clear, blue vastness that stretched to the horizon where it merged into a rose-tinted sky. And, about four hundred meters away, the silver streak that was the coast.

Malcolm swallowed. He had known, of course, that they were floating on the sea; he had felt the rocking and had heard the sound of the waves, but until now something had prevented him from looking, especially out the front window. Maybe his subconscious had sensed that whatever was out there would not help him concentrate on the tasks at hand.

He turned away from the console and on unsteady legs began to make his way back to Trip. The engines were dead, communication was too, so there wasn't much use in hovering next to the lifeless helm station. He might as well stay with Trip until Shuttlepod II came to get them.

He sat down on the floor next to the unconscious man, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit, and checked the bandages he had applied to Trip's injured foot. They were soaked with blood. Malcolm closed his eyes, willing the infuriating slowness of his thoughts to go away long enough for him to _think_. There had to be something else he could do.

Lift the foot. Of course. He was an idiot not to have thought of it before. Elevate the injured limb above heart level to decrease the pressure and slow down the bleeding. For lack of anything else within reach, Malcolm grabbed the toolbox and dragged it closer. As he gently lifted the leg off the deck, Trip's head moved and he moaned again.

"It's okay," Malcolm said. "It's okay, Trip. They'll be here soon."

He slid the toolbox under Trip's leg, careful so he didn't inadvertently bump against the foot. Small drops of blood fell to the floor, mingling with the water.

Water.

Malcolm stared at it. Why would there be water on the floor? But there it was, trickling across the floor in thin rivulets. His eyes followed it, retracing its trail until he found himself looking at the hatch. There, at the very bottom, the water seemed to appear out of nowhere, but for all his confusion, Malcolm knew very well just what was happening. The hatch was leaking, and water was seeping in. Water that would soon cover the entire floor.

Malcolm scrambled to his feet again. He almost tripped on his way back to the helm, but he hardly noticed. His fingers seemed unwilling to cooperate, and this time it took him two attempts until he managed to enter the hailing sequence. Maybe he had missed something before, maybe this time they would answer...

Bloody well likely, of course. The thing was broken, and it seemed that he couldn't rely on the rescue team to come and get them in time. He had no idea what the bloody hell was keeping them, but he knew that he couldn't sit here and watch the water rise while he waited. Even if he managed to lift Trip onto the bench, there was a very real chance that it would rise to waist level and higher before anyone came to get them out. And at some point, of course, the shuttle would start sinking.

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment. Even the thought – trapped inside an enclosed space that was slowly filling with water – was enough for the all-too-familiar panic to raise its ugly head. Usually, Malcolm could rely on himself to stay calm in a dangerous situation – if anything, the adrenaline boosted his thinking – but there was a world of difference between situations when he was calm, controlled Lieutenant Reed and... this. Hated, feared, loathed water. Water that was now seeking revenge for his refusal to look at it, slowly closing in on him so that he had no choice but to take notice.

If it had been only him, Malcolm had little doubt that he would have remained where he was, silent, frozen, waiting to deal with the water when it came. But there was Trip, and Trip needed him to be calm, controlled Lieutenant Reed, even now. Even when the water on the floor had almost reached Malcolm's feet.

Calm and controlled my arse, Malcolm thought as he stumbled over to where Trip lay. There was no way he could be either, not now. Maybe, though, there was a chance that he could be Lieutenant Reed instead of aquaphobic Malcolm, coward Malcolm. That was what his father had called it, cowardice, and he was right, of course.

But Lieutenant Reed wasn't a coward. He might have a paranoid streak and maybe even a strange liking for explosions, but he would do everything to keep a fellow officer safe. He would even open that hatch and face the water if that was what had to be done.

Coward Malcolm was terrified by the very idea, but that couldn't be helped, could it? The shuttle was going to sink, more sooner than later from the amount of water on the floor; even coward Malcolm could see that. So out the hatch it was, and if he drowned out there, it would at least be quicker than sitting in here and feeling the water engulf his thighs, his waist and finally his neck as it slowly devoured him, savoring each bite.

He opened the side compartment again. Coward Malcolm was urging him to go now before he lost his nerve, but Lieutenant Reed insisted that there were precautions he had to take first. Among the jumble of equipment inside, there was one of the backpacks they used on away missions to gather rock and flora specimens. Malcolm pulled it out and upended it to shake out the sample containers inside. They hit the deck with a wet clatter, and Malcolm spared a quick glance to see that the floor was almost entirely covered by now, including the place where he had left Trip.

"I'll be right there," he told Trip. He began throwing things into the backpack – a phase pistol, a survival kit, ration packs, a bag of water, the medkit and a thermoblanket. There was a very real chance that he wouldn't need any of it, he knew that. The rescue team might fish them out, or they might drown, which coward Malcolm was convinced would happen. Still, Lieutenant Reed insisted that the only way of going about this was following tactical protocol, and protocol dictated that he be prepared for all possibilities.

He closed the zipper on top of the backpack. It was supposed to be waterproof, but Malcolm doubted that it was designed to be used as swimming gear. The water would probably leak in at some point; he could only hope that it didn't reach the phase pistol.

He hoisted the backpack onto his back and tightened the straps, somehow reassured by its firm presence. It wasn't exactly a life-jacket, but it might serve to give him some buoyancy.

_Right_. Coward Malcolm smiled a thin, contemptuous smile. _When you're out there thrashing in panic and drowning Trip in the process, the backpack will certainly make all the difference_.

Lieutenant Reed didn't seem willing to listen, maybe because there wasn't much he could say in reply. The water level in the shuttle had risen so that his toes would have been covered, had he been barefoot. He looked at Trip who was still unconscious, his short hair floating in the water like a halo. He knew that he had to be quick.

_His foot_, Lieutenant Reed reminded him. _You can't leave it like this._

Coward Malcolm argued that there was no time, but he ignored him. If Trip bled into the alien sea, who knew what predators might catch the scent of his blood, never mind the infection that was sure to set in.

Malcolm knelt down in the water next to Trip and picked up the sock he had discarded earlier. He was sure that it would aggravate the injury if he wrestled the wet sock and the boot back over the foot, but it couldn't be helped. Trying not to jostle the broken, bloodied toes any more than he had to, Malcolm pulled the sock back over Trip's foot and rolled it over the swollen ankle.

There was a small moan, and Malcolm glanced up. _Damn._

Trip's eyes were wide open and glassy with shock. They searched aimlessly for a moment before they came to rest on Malcolm, then on the elevated foot.

"Wh-what..."

"You're going to be all right, Trip." It was Lieutenant Reed speaking, no doubt. Coward Malcolm wouldn't have found it within himself to try for a soothing tone of voice, not when his own throat was tight with fear. "We'll have to leave the shuttle, though. The hatch's leaking."

"Can't..."

Lieutenant Reed decided that there was not time to argue with Trip, who was still only half-conscious. "I have to put your boot back on your foot," he told him. "I'm afraid it's going to hurt a bit."

It hurt more than a bit, and when Malcolm was tying the laces Trip had almost passed out again from the pain. In a cruel way, Malcolm was relieved; the injured man would be much easier to handle if he wasn't aware of what was going on.

Getting to his feet, he grabbed Trip under the arms and began to drag him over to the hatch. Trip wasn't exactly a featherweight but the water on the floor, now almost up to Malcolm's ankles, made the job easier than it would have been without it.

_That's right, always look on the bright side_, coward Malcolm commented, and it was comforting to know that even now, when he was gritting his teeth not to be sick with fear, he was still able to form a coherent thought.

"Always look on the bright side," he repeated aloud and Trip moaned, although Malcolm wasn't sure if the other man had even heard him. Trip's eyes were closed but moving under the eyelids, his wet face almost white.

Malcolm sat down, his back facing the hatch, and moved Trip until he was sitting between Malcolm's spread legs, his back leaning against Malcolm's chest.

_The current_. Lieutenant Reed had returned, pushing aside coward Malcolm who was little more than a trembling wreck by now. _Do you really think you can hold on to him if there's a strong current? He'll drown a minute after you've opened that hatch. And yes, you __**are**__ going to open it_, he added to coward Malcolm, who winced.

He thought hard for a moment, mentally going through the shuttle's standard equipment if there was anything he could use to tie Trip and himself together. The only thing he came up with was ripping one of the blankets into strips, and that would take too much time. Sitting down, the water was already at their waist level, and he could feel its cold seeping through the layers of his uniform. He couldn't waste any more time.

Malcolm had almost decided to go ahead in spite of the current when the obvious solution came to him... or rather, to Lieutenant Reed. Reed seemed to have taken over control, and it was he who reached around Trip to pull down the zipper of his uniform, and whose hands were steady enough to work Trip's arms out of the sleeves of his jumpsuit. Trip struggled weakly, but he didn't return to full consciousness and Malcolm was glad he didn't. He quickly worked Trip's uniform down and finally pulled the sleeves back so that he could tie them behind his back. It took him some time to knot the wet fabric without being able to see what he was doing, but eventually he managed. He tested the knot by tugging at it. It wasn't as tight as he would have liked it to be, but it would have to do. The water had almost reached Trip's chest by now.

"Go," he muttered, and it was an order more than anything else. Lieutenant Reed would obey an order, even if coward Malcolm might consider refusing, under the circumstances. It was Lieutenant Reed who reached for the button that would unseal the hatch, Reed who actually pushed down on it.

Malcolm wrapped an arm around Trip and closed his eyes as he waited for the water.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think of this so far!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you so much for your reviews, I love getting them!

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2

The water came with a roar, as Malcolm had known it would. It sounded like a cry of triumph, even though Lieutenant Reed, terrified as he was, clung to the idea that the water was not a living thing out to get him. Then, it surrounded him, tearing at him, engulfing his neck, knocking the air out of him, and he knew that Lieutenant Reed was wrong. He had been all along.

Coward Malcolm wanted to scream, but there was no air to do so, only the awful sight, seen as though he were looking through a wobbling, half-immersed camera, of the shuttle filling with water. The shuttle sinking. And he was in the middle of it. The water, bursting in through the opening like a medieval battering ram, had carried him away from the hatch and he was now floating in the middle of the shuttle. The small buffer zone of air between the pod's ceiling and the surface was rapidly shrinking as more water poured in.

It wasn't Lieutenant Reed or coward Malcolm who started swimming towards the open hatch. It was a part of him that didn't need to think about what it was doing; the part that was most likely to survive. His left arm clamped around Trip, Malcolm used his right arm and his legs to kick and struggle, his head twisted so that he could see the hatch. It was only about a meter away, but the current of the water coming through the hatch was strong, and it seemed determined to keep him and Trip away from the opening that would allow them to escape. It wanted to carry them to the back of the shuttle, and once it had, there was almost no chance that they would manage to return to the hatch in time.

Coward Malcolm was back, and he seemed quite calm for a change. _You're going to die_, he told Malcolm. _You're both going to die. Just look at the air that's left, it'll be gone in two minutes at the most._

Malcolm grabbed Trip harder and kicked and punched at the water.

_The water's going to fill your mouth first... you'll refuse to let it go down, you'll breathe through your nose, but at some point there'll be no air left to breathe, and it'll taste cold and salty and you'll cough under water, which will hurt as if your throat was being torn apart. Your windpipe will spasm and try to close up to, but you'll have swallowed too much water already. And then you'll feel it, in your lungs, in every little air sac, filling you from the inside, and you won't pass out even though you're wishing for it, and you'll try to breathe and you'll breathe in death, and then, at some point, you won't feel anything at all anymore but your brain will refuse to die, your eardrums will burst from the pressure and you'll watch your own arms and limbs go still, and at some point you won't be able to see anymore but only feel the cold and the dark and then, maybe, eventually..._

Malcolm drew a lungful of air – yes, there was still air, he was _not_ dying - and kicked as hard as he could, holding on to Trip.

_Leave him_, coward Malcolm said, still quite calm.

Suddenly, Malcolm's left foot found something soft but solid. One of the chairs. He placed his foot on it firmly, then pushed himself off as hard as he could. He hadn't expected it, but the momentum did carry him to the hatch, his right hand grabbing its steel framing like the life line that it was. There was only a small pocket of air left between the ceiling and the water surface; the hatch was completely immersed by now, which meant that he would have to dive through it if he wanted to get out.

_You do that_, coward Malcolm said. _See how it feels under water. Get used to it._

"Bloody arsehole," Malcolm whispered, inhaled as much air as he could and dived. Bloody arsehole, he thought as he swam through the opening, trying to ignore that it was really happening, that the water was _all around him_. Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody arsehole.

His eyes were burning, and he could hardly make out the shuttle's outer hull after he had passed the hatch. His lungs seemed about to explode.

Bloody arsehole, he thought again, and somehow it silenced coward Malcolm's hysterics. Bloody arsehole, I made it, and I will get to surface. We both will.

He tightened his arm around Trip as his foot found the frame of the hatch and kicked it to gain new momentum.

His head broke through the surface. Sound and light inundated him, although he could hardly see a thing; he was looking through the lens of the underwater camera again, only that this time it had been dropped and was now tossed and tumbled around by the waves .

He coughed, and there was another cough that was not his own. Coward Malcolm had been wrong. Trip wasn't dead. There was water running out of his mouth and his eyes were open – half open, yes, and a little unfocused, but very much an indication that Trip was alive.

Malcolm did his best to keep Trip's head over the surface as he swam away from the shuttle. Waves washed over them, and while they were half a meter at the most, they did nothing to ease his progress. His wet uniform was pulling him down, as were his boots - and Trip of course, as coward Malcolm instantly supplied.

_You might have a chance if you let go of him now._

Wishing he could do something to silence the bloody bastard for good, Malcolm spared a glance back. The shuttle was gone. Bubbles were rising up at the place where it had been only moments ago, and he could still make out a dark, blurred silhouette under the surface. If he had stayed next to it, the whirlpool created by the sinking pod might have been strong enough to pull him under; even at a distance of more than five meters, he could feel it tugging at his legs. Coward Malcolm winced at the idea.

"Oh shut up." Treading water, Malcolm turned his head away from the sinking shuttle. His eyes were tearing from the constant onslaught of salty water, and he had to blink several times before he could make out the coast in the distance. It had to be four hundred or five hundred meters, maybe more.

_It is more. You of all people should know that at sea, distances always seem smaller than they really are. Not that it is of any importance, of course. It could be four hundred kilometers for all it matters, because somewhere along those four hundred meters you're going to go under, drown because you're so bloody noble and heroic and won't do what's necessary to save at least your own sorry-_

"Shut _up_!" Malcolm yelled, and right then a wave came at him, leaving him coughing and gasping. Trip was coughing, too.

"Didn'... say nuthin'..."

Malcolm tightened his grip on the other man. "Trip?"

Trip coughed. "Yeah..."

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as another wave washed over him. Paddling one-armed and treading water to keep them both afloat was hard enough; it would be impossible if Trip started to panic.

"I'm going to get us out, all right? Just..." Another wave washed over their heads, and Malcolm paused to catch his breath before he could continue. His throat was rough and burning from the saltwater. "Just try to keep your head up, okay?"

Trip didn't answer, but he didn't seem about to panic, either. A moment later, Malcolm felt a movement next to his own kicking feet and realized that Trip was trying to tread water with his uninjured foot.

"Don't," Malcolm wanted to say, but he thought better of it when he saw another wave coming at them. He had already swallowed too much water, and talking cost energy he could ill afford to waste. As coward Malcolm kept reminding him, it was a long way to the coast.

After he had been swimming for a while, he noticed that Trip's movements had grown stronger and were in sync with his own. The additional momentum actually seemed to help propel them forward.

Coward Malcolm seemed to have nothing to say this time, and Malcolm tried to concentrate on the mental image of the coast, automatically closing his eyes when another wave surged in front of him. He knew that he could not think of how many gallons of water there were between him and solid ground, that the water was tugging at his clothes, trying to pull him under. Coward Malcolm seemed to wait for an opportunity to slip into panic mode, to scream and yell and thrash and drown Trip, and it was only the sight of the coast that kept the bastard under control. There was land, a bright stretch that was growing larger every time he twisted his head to see it, and if he kept his cool, there was a chance that he might feel solid ground under his feet again.

Malcolm wasn't sure how much time had passed when Trip's foot ceased moving, his body growing limp in Malcolm's arm. Obviously, with the blood loss and the pain the exertion had become too much for him and he had passed out.

Malcolm turned his head to look at the coast, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. His right arm was aching fiercely, and it seemed that the pull of the water had grown stronger, as if it sensed that he was getting weaker. As if it were waiting for him to pass out as well, ready to pounce.

_Nonsense_, Lieutenant Reed said sharply. _Nonsense. Water cannot pounce. That's rubbish._

It wasn't, and Lieutenant Reed didn't seem all that convinced of what he was saying, for he didn't speak up again. The coast, Malcolm thought. In spite of coward Malcolm's pessimism, it did seem closer now than it had been, close enough for him to see that the silvery streak was actually a beach. Slender trees with blue, brush-like tops grew on it, and in the distance Malcolm thought he could make out a forest.

_Yes, and why don't you add a little fish and chips shop and a bingo parlor for all it matters,_ coward Malcolm commented, but his sarcasm had lost its venom. Maybe he was getting tired; Malcolm knew he was. Every time he moved his right arm for another stroke, it seemed like he wouldn't be able to muster the energy for another one. Tears were trickling from the corners of his eyes, brought on by the saltwater and maybe the exertion, and the dull pain at the back of his head had developed into a full-blown pounding.

_Can't be more than a hundred and fifty meters now_, Lieutenant Reed said, ignoring coward Malcolm's sneer. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. He could keep that up for a hundred and fifty more meters, couldn't he?

A wave caught him unawares, filling his mouth with water. He tried to spit it out and somehow managed to catch another mouthful, which made him choke. The sea and sky blurred before his eyes.

_Here we go. You did remember that the waves grow stronger the closer you get to the coast? You did remember that, didn't you?_

Of course he had. And even if not, it seemed only natural that it would be so. It made sense to attack your enemy when he was getting weaker. Tactical thinking, that was called, and to hell with Lieutenant Reed and his idea that the sea had no mind of its own. Even his father, hell, bloody generations of Reed Navy men would have told him that the opposite was true.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. He took another look at the coast. He could see now that there were long red fibers growing from the tops of the brush trees. Maybe they were fruits; maybe they were even edible.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. The waves were bearing down on him, slapping in his face. His head seemed to be under water more than half of the time, and he knew that Trip's must be, too. He couldn't be getting enough air, but there was nothing Malcolm could do about it now. This was what being keelhauled must feel like, he thought, and a crazy, light-headed part of him almost breathed a laugh at the idea. Lieutenant Reed, I don't like the state the Armory's in. Tie him to a rope, mateys, and toss him over board, let's show 'im what we do with land lubbers like 'im. Arrgh.

This time, a chuckle did escape him and instantly he swallowed more water, enough so that there was no way he could spit it out again. Another wave crashed into his face, and he choked.

That was when the cramp struck in his right arm.

Kick, kick, kick. It wasn't enough to keep them afloat, not with the waves coming down on him like that, not with Trip's additional weight pulling him down. He tried moving his arm despite the cramp and would have screamed, if there had been enough air left to do so. It felt as if the arm were being wrenched from its socket, the muscles and tendons twisted by an invisible and malevolent hand.

Waves washed over him, pouncing like he had known they would, pushing him under. Coward Malcolm was freaking out, this close to thrashing and screaming because the water was _all around him_, because it would drown him.

Except that it wouldn't. His left arm had let go of Trip and was doing the strokes his right arm refused to do. Kick, stroke, kick, stroke. He hadn't expected it, but the knot he had tied behind his back was still there, keeping Trip close to him. He knew he couldn't rule out the possibility that coward Malcolm was right and Trip had drowned somewhere along the way, but even if he had, Malcolm wasn't going to leave him in the sea.

Another wave came at him, but this time instead of crashing down on him it only gave him a light shove, as if pushing him out the door. And then his foot hit something solid. Soft ground.

Malcolm raised his head. The waves were small now, almost non-existent, and both his feet had found the bottom, as suddenly as if it had been there all the time. He was still thirty or forty meters away from the shore, but it seemed that the beach descended in a gentle slope into the sea, a slope that would allow him to wade the rest of the way.

He smiled, or at least tried to. The sea had a mind of its own, yes, but the land did, too. And unlike the water, the land was not his enemy.

His left arm wrapped around Trip's still body, Malcolm began to wade, the pressure of the water easing off with every step. Something touched his leg and he glanced down to find that he was walking through a forest of seaweed. Like pale blue hair, it was floating in the clear, turquoise water that allowed him to see straight to the bottom. Tiny translucent fish whizzed off into hiding as they became aware of the strange presence in their underwater world.

The slope was getting shallower the further he walked, and soon the water came up only to his waist. Malcolm tested his right arm by stretching it and found that the muscle-wrenching pain had subsided, leaving a slightly unpleasant tingling behind. Well, it would do. He reached behind himself and, still holding on to Trip with his left arm, began to untie the knot he had made of Trip's uniform sleeves. His fingers were numb and the wet fabric was hard to grasp, but eventually he felt it give way. Once the knot was undone, Malcolm grabbed Trip under both arms and half-waded, half-stumbled on. The going was getting harder, not that he gave a rat's arse of course. The big ache that was his body, the pounding in his head and the trembling of his arms and legs were nothing compared to the euphoria of leaving the water behind.

He fell down several times during the last few meters, his shaking arms refusing to carry Trip's weight, but every time he got up again and pressed on. Coward Malcolm was just that, a coward, and right now he was sulking in a corner, refusing to believe that it had actually happened. Malcolm Reed had faced the water and survived.

_That'll learn ya, as Trip would say. And no, he hasn't drowned, no matter what you say. I just saw him breathe. He's not dead._

Malcolm wasn't quite sure how he managed the last couple of meters and where he found the energy to drag Trip out of the surf and onto dry land. His arms and legs seemed to move on their own volition, and as soon as Trip's feet were no longer in the water, they went on strike. Malcolm fell to his knees, then down in the sand next to Trip, and somehow managed to stay conscious long enough to ensure that Trip was still breathing.

Then, his hand resting on Trip's stomach, Malcolm's head dropped into the sand, the ocean behind him lapping gently at the shore.

TBC...

Well, he did it :). Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

I love getting your reviews, thank you for letting me know what you think!

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3

Someone was tugging at his hair. It was surprisingly painful, as if they were using a pair of sharp pincers on him. Pincers... Phlox had some in sickbay. Surely it couldn't be the doctor who was pulling at his hair, could it? "_You may disagree as usual, Lieutenant, but I do believe that you would benefit greatly from the removal of your cilium."_ Not Phlox, no. Trip, maybe? You could never know what counted as humor among the Yanks. It might seem a hilarious practical joke to Trip to pull someone's hair out while they were sleeping.

Bugger. They were being quite persistent. Which probably meant that he should do something about it, even though he really didn't want to leave the dark, comfortable place where he seemed to have stashed himself. He had an inkling that things would rapidly go downhill once he opened his eyes. Not only did the surface he was lying on feel very much unlike the bed back in his quarters; there was also a strange noise, a soft, repetitive sound that unsettled him. Waves? For some reason, he knew that it was the sound of waves washing against a shore.

Malcolm opened his eyes, and found himself looking at a bird. It looked rather like a large seagull, with a thin red streak running down its head and tapering off at the beak. It didn't seem frightened by his presence, or by the fact that the strange, furry rock it had been pecking at could move and had a body attached to it. In its beak, Malcolm could see a tuft of the hair it had pulled out. The bird eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment they were locked in a staring contest, like two would-be contestants of a duel.

After a second or two, Malcolm blinked and looked away. Next to him, Trip was still unconscious, sprawled on the sand, his face turned away from Malcolm. The top part of his uniform was crumpled like an unwashed towel, the sleeves twisted and torn. For a moment, Malcolm found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened after he had stumbled out of the water. He had checked Trip's life signs, hadn't he? But what if Trip had stopped breathing, slowly choking on a residue of water in his lungs while Malcolm lay unconscious?

Malcolm reached out to turn him over and found that Trip's black uniform shirt was almost dry. It was rather warm here on the beach, almost too warm; a fact that had escaped him until now.

Trip limply flopped over on his back. The left side of his face was covered by a fine layer of sand, which crumbled away as his head tilted to one side. His chest rose and fell, and when Malcolm touched his face to wipe away the rest of the sand, his skin felt warm under Malcolm's fingers.

"Trip?" The word came out as a hoarse croak. Malcolm swallowed, but to little avail; the saltwater had left him parched and sore, as if a piece of sandpaper had gotten stuck in his throat halfway down. "Trip, can you hear me?"

The bird had been watching them curiously, as if trying to make sense of the strange scene. Now it minced closer and aimed an experimental peck at Trip's head. Malcolm made a shooing movement.

"Go away."

The bird was not impressed and dipped its head down again, pulling out several blond tufts to add to the brown ones.

"I said, go away!" He clapped his hands, which seemed to irritate the animal. It backed off a little, eyeing him beadily. Malcolm clapped again and threw a little piece of driftwood, his aim poor so that the piece of wood sailed past the bird and fell into the sand.

"Buzz off!"

The bird fluttered, then spread its wings and lifted off, the tufts of hair firmly clamped in its beak. Malcolm felt oddly relieved to see it go.

"That... was one fat seagull," a hoarse voice said, and Malcolm looked down to find that Trip's eyes were open, squinting at him in the bright sun. Trip licked his lips, lifting a weak hand to touch the top of his head. "It wasn't... pullin' at my hair, was it?"

"Actually, it was," Malcolm said. "That's how I woke up. I suppose it was gathering nest-building material."

He blinked. The sun was awfully bright, and the pounding in his head made it hard for him to think.

Trip tried to sit up and failed. "The... the shuttle?"

Malcolm blinked again, trying to ignore the notion that it would be nice to just lie down again and get some sleep. "It sank, remember? When we were swimming away from it."

Trip nodded at that, and Malcolm noticed the thin film of sweat on his face. His broken ankle must be giving him hell, never mind the smashed toes.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, inwardly cursing the slowness of his thoughts and the sluggishness that seemed to have taken hold of his mind. He needed to help Trip, get things going instead of sitting around like a prize idiot.

Trip only shrugged, which was answer enough in itself for Malcolm. He shrugged off the backpack and opened it. As he had expected, the equipment inside turned out to be wet, but it wasn't soaked as he had secretly feared. He took out the medkit and set it on the sand next to Trip.

"I'm going to give you another dose of painkiller," he said, partly to inform Trip and partly to tell his own sluggish brain how to proceed from here. "After that, I'll try and find a place where we can stay until they come to get us." He took out the hypospray he had used before and adjusted it to another two units. "Might be more comfortable somewhere in the shade."

Trip's face relaxed as soon as Malcolm had injected the painkiller into his neck. "You call Enterprise?"

There was a touch of unease as Malcolm remembered his futile attempts to call the ship for help. It wasn't exactly a surprise that the communications console was broken after the tumble they had taken, but the rescue team should have arrived by now. T'Pol must have seen the crash on her sensors, and Captain Archer would have launched Shuttlepod II before they had even hit the surface, more likely than not tearing after them himself like the bloody cavalry. So why weren't they here yet? It couldn't be that hard to detect two human bio signs on an uninhabited planet.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm realized that Trip was still waiting for an answer. "I tried to," he said. "I couldn't reach them, though. Communications must've been damaged on the way down."

Trip frowned. "Wish I knew what happened. It was like we flew into a giant forcefield or somethin'..." He coughed, and Malcolm pulled the water bag out of the backpack.

"Here," he handed it to Trip after unscrewing the cap for him. Trip drank a small sip, then gave the bag to Malcolm.

"Thanks."

Malcolm lifted it to his own lips and drank a mouthful. The water was cold and refreshing. He resisted the temptation to have another sip and handed the bag to Trip.

"Here, drink as much as you like." He rummaged through the backpack until he found the phase pistol, and noted with relief that the water hadn't done any damage to the power cell. Quickly, he checked the setting, then put the weapon into Trip's hand. "I'll be right back. Just call me if anything happens, okay?"

The corners of Trip's mouth twitched a little as he glanced down at the phase pistol. "That for shootin' the seagull when it comes back?"

Malcolm knew that under different circumstances, Trip's joke might have irritated him. As it was, his mind was far too slow to rouse the energy for anything more than a weak smile.

"I'll be right back."

He got to his feet, and almost fell down again when his legs decided that they'd rather not do any work right now. Malcolm closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had Trip to take care of. He could do this.

"Mal, you all right?"

Malcolm opened his eyes again. "Yes, Commander."

Malcolm had hoped that Trip would tell him to call him Trip, for God's sake, and drop the damn "Commander". They could throw a few teasing remarks back and forth, and Trip would forget about Malcolm's condition. It had worked before. "Y'don't look all right to me, "Trip said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Why don't you sit down again and let me check you up."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm fine, Commander, and I really need to-"

Trip sighed. "Sit down, Malcolm, that's an order."

Malcolm's legs seemed to have acquired a mind of their own, and this time they decided that sitting down was a good idea. He sat, or rather plopped down in the sand next to Trip, and suddenly everything seemed overly bright, as if someone had turned up the light.

"Really, I'm-" –_fine_, he wanted to say, but what came out instead was a small burp and a sudden and entirely unexpected heave. A moment later, he was bringing up more water than he could remember swallowing, and it was only by lucky coincidence that he hit the sand and not Trip. The retching continued for quite a while even after the vomiting had stopped, and when it was over Malcolm felt as if someone had turned him inside out and given him a good shake.

Trip was watching him. "Feelin' better?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes." He looked down, and found that his hands were shaking.

Trip had managed to prop himself up on one elbow and take the bio scanner out of the medkit. "You've got a concussion," he said with a glance at the display.

Malcolm nodded; he had surmised as much. "I know."

Trip frowned at him. "Then you gotta lie down. The Cap'n's gonna be here soon, there's no need for you to go and make it worse."

Malcolm's legs very much agreed with the idea, as did his still queasy stomach. Ignoring them, he shook his head. "I've got to do a recce of the surroundings. We can't stay here, and I need to secure the perimeter before we move."

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm began to get to his feet again. "Trip, I'm only going to have a look around. I won't be long."

He was almost surprised when Trip only nodded and laid back down in the sand, the phase pistol held loosely in one hand. "'kay."

Malcolm gave him a long look. The injection seemed to have taken care of the worst of the pain, but Trip was quite obviously not well.

"I'll be right back," he said, and was relieved when Trip nodded again. For a moment there, he had thought that the other man had passed out.

Malcolm's legs wobbled as he walked up the gentle slope of the beach, but they seemed willing to cooperate and it was all that mattered at the moment. Emptying his stomach of the salty water had helped; his thoughts had cleared, and the sunlight didn't seem quite as glaring as when he had first woken up. In fact, it felt almost pleasantly warm now, very much unlike the cold water of the sea.

At the top of the slope, Malcolm glanced around. Under different circumstances, this would have been the ideal place for "a little R and R", as the Captain called it. Adjoining the beach was a small forest of the blue brush trees, providing the shade he had been looking for. Rope-like fruit stalks weighed down the trees and moved in the breeze like a giant beaded curtain. Malcolm caught one of the red fibers in his hand and found that the fruits growing on the stalks looked very much like redcurrant. Some of the larger berries burst when he touched the stalk, and their juice dripped onto the sand below.

He let go of it, careful not to touch the fruits or the juice in case they were poisonous, and surveyed his immediate surroundings. There was more than enough room to set up camp under one of the brush trees, preferably one that didn't bear fruit. Malcolm had noticed that some of the smaller trees had no stalks hanging from their tops. He chose one that would allow him a direct view of the beach and began to clear the area below it, brushing away driftwood and dried fruit stalks until the sand looked reasonably clean. It would do for a few hours. It couldn't be much longer now until Shuttlepod II came to take them back to Enterprise.

Malcolm stacked some of the driftwood to one side, thinking that he might use it to get a fire going. Not that they really needed the protection; except for the seagulls, the coast didn't seem to harbor any larger life forms. Well, if nothing else, they could use it to warm up some of the ration packs and dry their boots. It seemed like a good idea to get a fire started, even as a precautionary measure. Satisfied with the thought, Malcolm nodded to himself. Apparently, his brain was finally catching up with the situation, allowing him to fall into the tactical routine he knew so well. Secure the perimeter. Find a campsite. Take stock of the supplies. Those were things he knew, things he could rely on.

Malcolm began to walk back the way he had come, squinting as he stepped out of the forest into the bright sun. The pounding behind his eyes had lessened to a mild throb at the back of his head, and his legs seemed to have resigned to the idea that it was going to be a while until they got to rest.

Must have been the saltwater, he thought. Saltwater was poison for the metabolism; every sailor knew that.

_You're not a bloody sailor._

Trip lifted his head when Malcolm came back and tried for a weak grin. "Find us a nice bed'n'breakfast, Loo-tenant?"

Malcolm smirked. "As a matter of fact, I have. The accommodation's a little sub-standard, but the view is great."

Trip's smile faltered and turned into a pained grimace before he could stop himself. Malcolm didn't comment, although it worried him that the analgesic had worn off so quickly. It wasn't long until Trip would be in terrible pain, and Malcolm wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to keep an injured man constantly doped up.

"Well, let's... have a look at the place," Trip said. Malcolm had heard the hitch in his voice, but he wasn't going to say anything about it. He had been where Trip was now, and knew that sometimes it helped to act the tough guy who could crack jokes even when he was almost crying with pain. Hoshi would no doubt roll her eyes at this, but it was true.

He closed the backpack and shouldered it, then held out his hand. "Come on."

He couldn't carry Trip in his concussed state, and knew that Trip wouldn't let himself be dragged up the slope like a sack of potatoes, even if it meant putting strain on his injured foot.

_Maybe Hoshi has a point, and this "guy stuff" does need some working on._

Trip grabbed his hand and allowed Malcolm to pull him to his feet; or rather, his uninjured foot. Malcolm wrapped one arm around Trip's waist to keep him steady and pulled one of Trip's arms across his shoulders. Trip's weight was almost entirely on him, and for a moment Malcolm considered trying to carry the Commander in spite of his concussion. He couldn't see how they were going to get anywhere like this.

"What... are y'waitin' for?"

Malcolm glanced at Trip, then back up the slope and sighed. He had made it out of the sinking shuttlepod and to the shore. In comparison, this should be child's play.

They started walking, or rather, Malcolm did. Trip was hopping alongside him on one foot, his left leg bent at the knee. He grunted with pain at every step, and Malcolm did his best to carry both of their weights, thinking that they must look like a strange, Starfleet-blue spider crawling up the slope.

Malcolm hadn't expected them to make it all the way up without an incident, but they did. The last few meters he more or less carried Trip rather than supporting him, and the other man seemed too exhausted to make much of a protest. When they had finally reached the campsite, Trip's face was white and gleaming with sweat.

Malcolm helped him lie down, then knelt in the sand next to him. He knew he had to take care of the injured foot, but that could wait until he had given Trip another dose of painkiller.

Trip exhaled and raised his head to look down at the sea and the horizon, where no shuttlepod had appeared so far.

"Where... the hell's Enterprise?" he asked. "It's 'bout friggin' time."

Malcolm glanced at the sky. "They'll be here soon."

_I hope._

TBC...

Please tell me what you think of this so far!


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for your reviews, I love them!

* * *

4

T'Pol watched Captain Archer pace about the bridge, and allowed a small, curious part of her mind to wonder why humans tended to perform pointless and repetitive movements when under stress.

"Stress" was not a word her people used. It was not logical. If there was a problem that demanded a Vulcan's undivided attention, the individual in question would cease all activities except for the ones necessary for finding a solution. Humans, on the other hand, bounced their knees, tapped their feet on the floor or cracked their knuckles, until another human snapped at them to "cut it out". In Captain Archer's case, of course, this wasn't likely to happen; Commander Tucker wasn't here, and there was no other human on the ship whose relationship with the Captain allowed such familiarities.

T'Pol wondered if she should point out to him that he was wasting his energy, but decided not to. More likely than not, her logic would only serve to annoy him.

She decided on a different approach. "Captain. You could not have anticipated this."

He whirled around, and she wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say, after all. "That's what I find hard to believe. Why didn't we detect it when we first scanned the planet?"

A human in her situation would have sighed. "As I said, Captain, the anomaly wasn't there when I performed the first scan."

Ensign Sato turned around at her station. "So you're saying it just popped up and swallowed the shuttle, then disappeared again?"

Sato's tone and expression implied that she found the suggestion ridiculous. T'Pol noticed that Ensign Mayweather and Müller at Tactical were regarding her with the same hard, almost hostile stare, and found herself experiencing a twinge of annoyance which she immediately suppressed. This was nothing new. She had often been the target of her human colleagues' emotional outbursts when the situation became tense.

"It is a fact that the anomaly appeared for approximately 9.45 minutes, then disappeared again," she stated, looking at the Captain again. "And since the shuttlepod was in close vicinity when this happened, it is the logical conclusion that it was absorbed."

"Absorbed as in destroyed?" the Captain asked. T'Pol didn't miss the change in his intonation and paused briefly before she answered, to indicate that she wasn't indifferent to the emotional implications of her reply.

"Unknown, sir. I assume, however, that an explosion within the anomaly would have shown up on the scans. There is no sign of a disturbance. It is more likely that the shuttlepod was still intact after entering the anomaly."

"Then where are they?" Müller asked. "I scanned the area at least a dozen times. There's no trace of the shuttle, or any... wreckage."

T'Pol did not point out that it was illogical to perform the same scan twelve times in succession, assuming that the scanning equipment wasn't malfunctioning.

"As I said, Ensign, I do not believe that there is any wreckage to be found. It is my theory that the shuttlepod left the anomaly in one piece, yet it didn't exit into the same spatial continuum."

The Captain was standing in front of the science station now, leaning onto the handrail. "What makes you think so?"

"If the anomaly had destroyed the shuttlepod, the sensors should have detected its remains after the phenomenon had disappeared again. Even if it was vaporized there would be microparticles left in the atmosphere." T'Pol saw Archer's mouth harden and realized that he was thinking about Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker being vaporized within the anomaly. She continued. "As Ensign Müller pointed out, there were no such traces, which leads to the conclusion that the shuttlepod is still there, yet in a place where out scanners cannot detect it."

Archer nodded. "A doorway," he said.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Metaphorically speaking, yes."

He frowned. "Did you get any data on what's on the other side?"

T'Pol opened her mouth to tell him that the scanners hadn't been able to pick up anything except the anomaly itself when Müller interrupted her, sounding quite agitated.

"Captain, I think it's coming back!"

"T'Pol!" Archer said, but she had already turned around to her console.

"Ensign Müller is correct, Captain. The anomaly seems to be re-establishing itself."

She watched on her monitor as the lines formed, assuming the same shape as they had the first time. A human would have compared it to a broken snail shell; to a Vulcan, the anomaly was helical with serrated edges.

"Like before, it appears to be helical with serrated edges," she said, and, anticipating his next question: "The scanners are not picking up any trace of the shuttlepod."

Archer had climbed the steps to her station and was now standing next to her. She could smell his excitement and anxiety, and routinely blocked out the assault on her nostrils.

"Can we send a probe in there?" he asked.

T'Pol turned to look at him. "We would only be able to maintain contact with the probe as long as it is inside the phenomenon. After it has passed the anomaly, it is unlikely that we would still be able to receive any transmitted data."

Captain Archer nodded slowly, his eyes on the monitor, and T'Pol was sure that Lieutenant Reed would not have liked the expression on his face, had he been here to see it.

"Captain, I strongly advise against flying another shuttlepod into the anomaly," she said, preparing herself for an unnecessarily emotional discussion. "It would be highly illogical to do so as we do not know what is on the other side."

Archer nodded curtly, and T'Pol saw Müller's face slacken with relief. She assumed that he had not been looking forward to "channelling Reed's spirit", as the human expression went, and arguing with his Captain about the dangers of his plan.

"Is there any way we could modify a probe to stay in contact even after it has crossed the anomaly?" the Captain wanted to know.

"It may be possible, sir," she said, wondering how to best address what she wanted to say next. "There is, however, another option."

Archer seemed to have noticed her reluctance and frowned. "Yes?"

T'Pol stood. She knew that she was about to broach a "touchy subject", and that humans were more comfortable – and less prone to hasty, emotional responses – if there was no audience watching. "Captain, may I have a word with you in your ready room?"

Archer's frown deepened, but he said nothing and only nodded. "Sure. Keep an eye on the anomaly, Müller, and call us if anything changes."

"Aye, sir," the young Ensign replied, already on his way to the science station.

As she followed Archer to the ready room, T'Pol wondered how he would react to her suggestion, and whether he would reject it right away as he had done before.

Human pride. It could be difficult to deal with.

* * *

"How bad is it?"

Malcolm laid aside the boot he had removed from Trip's foot and began to take off the sock. He had lifted Trip's leg onto the backpack as a makeshift support, trying to position himself so that his back would block Trip's view of what he was doing.

"Malcolm. How bad?" Trip's voice sounded a little unsteady after the double dose of painkiller Malcolm had given him.

"Your ankle's broken," Malcolm replied. He didn't say that the ankle was swollen to almost twice its normal size and resembled an overripe plum both in color and in shape. He rolled the sock all the way down and tried to pull it off, but it didn't budge. The blood had soaked through the bandage Malcolm had hastily applied on the shuttlepod, and the gauze was glued to the sock with clotting blood. Malcolm gently tugged at the sock again. He would have unstick it carefully. One centimeter at a time, he began to peel it off with his fingertips, frowning at the state of the bandage that was revealed underneath. It was dirty and almost entirely soaked with blood, both dried and fresh. When he had finally removed the sock and laid it aside, the bandaged toes looked as if someone had crumpled up a blood-stained handkerchief and tossed it into the general direction of Trip's foot.

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm turned around. Trip was trying to prop himself up on his elbows, straining his neck to get a better look. "What happened to my foot?"

Malcolm laid a hand on Trip's shoulder. "Don't. Your toes..." He sighed. "I believe something heavy must have collided with your foot during the crash. Your toes are broken."

"They're bleedin'," Trip said.

Ignoring the unspoken question, Malcolm nodded. "Yes. I'll have to change the bandage."

Which wasn't going to be easy. Malcolm wasn't even sure if it was a good idea to replace the bandage; he might do irreparable damage if he moved the broken toes around too much. Then again, it wasn't as if he could make things much worse.

Malcolm gave the bandage an experimental tug to see if it stuck to the wound, and was relieved to find that it didn't. Very carefully, he began to unwrap the soaked gauze. Trip hissed a little when the last of the bandage was pulled off, and Malcolm made sure that he blocked Trip's view of the foot. It looked horrible. The deformed ankle was bad enough, but unlike the toes, it still resembled something like a human body part. Malcolm stared at the two lumps of raw hamburger that had once been the second and the third toes, and willed himself not to be sick again.

"I'm... I'm going to try and stabilize them," he said. It, he amended silently. He might be able to do something about the great toe, which was crooked and broken but at least still there. As for the other two, there wasn't anything left to stabilize. "Do you want another dose of painkiller before I start?"

"Malcolm."

Trip's tone of voice made him turn around.

"Yes?"

Trip swallowed. "Let me see my foot, okay?"

"Trip..."

"Let me see it."

Malcolm could see that Trip was not going to let it go, and silently moved aside. Trip raised his head as far as he could.

"Son of a bitch." He took a sharp breath, then let his head fall back down. "I didn't..."

He hadn't expected it to be quite that bad. Malcolm couldn't think of anything to say in reply. He took a fresh roll of bandage out of the medkit and eyed the swollen, purple ankle. It looked as if it would burst when he touched it.

"You sure you don't want another dose of painkiller?"

Trip shook his head. "I'll be okay."

Silently, Malcolm began to apply the bandage. He knew he wasn't doing a great job; he had stabilized broken limbs before, but none of them had been bruised and swollen out of shape.

Trip hadn't made a sound, but his breathing had become harsher, and Malcolm could feel the muscles in his propped-up leg tremble.

"I wonder what's keeping the Captain," Malcolm said as he wrapped the last of the bandage around Trip's calf. "They must have seen the crash on their sensors."

"Maybe... somethin' came up," Trip said. "Maybe there's some kinda interference..."

Malcolm tied the ends of the bandage into a knot. "I couldn't call them, back on the shuttle. Communication was dead, although the console seemed to function."

"I'm sure they're workin' on it."

Malcolm said nothing. Even if something in the atmosphere had made them crash and had killed communication, Enterprise should have tried to get in touch by now. T'Pol's sensors should be able to locate their bio signs on the surface; she had scanned the local flora and fauna just fine.

Something was not right.

Shaking his head, he returned his mind to the task at hand: Trip's toes. The broken bone of the great toe had pierced the skin, and he didn't know how to set it without ripping an even larger gash into Trip's flesh. Better to leave it alone and let Phlox deal with it when they were back on Enterprise. All he could do was to keep the wound covered and hope for the best.

Malcolm picked up the last roll of bandage. He tried to be very careful as he applied it, but it was obvious from Trip's barely suppressed gasp that he was causing the engineer a lot of pain.

"Sorry," he said quietly, wishing he could have come up with something more reassuring to say. If their positions were reversed, Trip would no doubt keep up a constant flow of conversation to distract him from the pain. "I'm almost done."

"S'okay."

Trip's voice was little more than a whisper, and he was beginning to tremble all over. Malcolm finished the job as quickly as he could and tied the ends of the bandage into a knot to keep the whole thing in place.

"All done."

Trip exhaled. "Thanks."

Malcolm carefully lifted Trip's foot off the backpack and laid it onto the discarded boot instead to keep it off the ground.

"You should try and get some rest." He took the thermoblanket out of the backpack, shook it out and spread it over Trip. "I'll try to get a fire started in the meantime, then we can have something to eat."

Trip frowned. "Are you... planning to shoot one of the seagulls, or try and see if those red berries are edible?"

"Neither, actually." Malcolm grinned and held up one of the ration packs. "Would you prefer chicken curry, or the classic meatloaf and mashed potatoes?"

Trip smiled weakly, and Malcolm was relieved to see it. "Well prepared, huh?"

Malcolm didn't mention that it was Lieutenant Reed, rather than his own, cowardly self, who had thought of bringing the ration packs. It would have meant explaining about the journey to the shore, about coward Malcolm and about his fear, and he wasn't ready to do that. "So, what would you like? We also have Chinese noodles with bamboo sprouts and vegetable casserole."

"I think I'll stick with the meatloaf," Trip's said, and Malcolm nodded. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to warm up the ration packs over an open fire, but it didn't really matter. There were worse things than having cold meatloaf for dinner.

_Being marooned, for example._

He pushed the thought away. Coward Malcolm wanted to dwell on it, wanted to tell Trip that his interference theory was as brittle as the driftwood on the beach, but Malcolm clamped down on him before he could say a word.

_Thought I'd left the bloody bastard in the sea to drown._

Malcolm looked around for rocks to build a wall around his fire. There were none except for a few small pebbles, and he shrugged, beginning to clear the sand in front of him. He wasn't going to leave Trip alone just to go looking for rocks; he would have to leave soon enough to search for drinking water. The one-liter bag they had wasn't nearly enough, not if they were going to stay here for more than a few hours.

He made a shallow indention in the sand and placed some of the dry fruit stalks in the middle as kindling, then built a teepee structure out of the driftwood he had gathered. When he was done, he took out the phase pistol and aimed a short-range beam at the fruit stalks. They caught fire immediately. Malcolm added a little more kindling to be sure, satisfied when he saw that the driftwood teepee was starting to burn as well. Soon it would fall inward and feed the small fire he had built.

Trip was watching the fire as well. "Nice," he said. "I used to love sittin' round the campfire when I was a kid."

Malcolm smiled. "That was one thing I liked about being an Eagle Scout; they let us build fires on every survival training."

"Marshmallows?" Trip asked, and it took Malcolm a moment before he caught on.

"No, I'm afraid marshmallows weren't on our menu."

He wondered what his patrol leader would have said if Malcolm had suggested roasting marshmallows during field training. Probably assigned him to work detail for the rest of the trip.

"A campfire isn't a campfire without marshmallows," Trip said sleepily, and Malcolm grinned a little in response.

"Maybe not."

He added more driftwood to the fire, and the flames flickered higher. They were little more than transparent silhouettes, the air around them shimmering like a mirage.

Malcolm raised his head and looked out at the sea. The pale, rose-tinted sky was darkening at the horizon, and the sun, formerly high in the sky, seemed to have drifted southwards. He recalled T'Pol's report about the planet; one turn around its axis took approximately twenty Earth hours. He couldn't tell how much time had passed since they had crawled ashore; all time-measuring devices had sunk together with the shuttle. It seemed reasonable to assume, though, that the ten-hour day was drawing to an end.

Malcolm tossed another handful of stalks onto the fire and watched the sparks fly. If for some reason T'Pol's scanners couldn't pick them up and the Captain believed them to be dead, he'd still want to salvage the shuttle, wouldn't he? And he'd search until he found the bodies. Malcolm knew Jonathan Archer well enough to be sure of that.

Maybe something had happened to Enterprise. Maybe they had been attacked and forced to leave, or...

He didn't want to think the thought to its end. Chances were that the situation would resolve itself during the next few hours; in his experience, that was what usually happened. He pushed the meatloaf and the chicken curry close to the fire. The cooking would work better if he had a frying pan, he thought, and smirked at the idea. All of this would work considerably better if he had a frying pan, a tent, enough medication for Trip and maybe a communicator to call Enterprise.

Malcolm began to pull off his damp boots, intending to dry them as well, when his eyes fell on Trip again. The engineer's face was taut with pain, his eyes closed, and he was trembling worse than before. Malcolm dropped his boots and knelt next to Trip in the sand, resting a hand on the pale forehead. Trip's skin felt hot to the touch.

"Trip," Malcolm said, and, when Trip didn't react, "Commander!"

Trip opened his eyes. "C'n you move me closer to th' fire, Mal? I'm freezin'."

Malcolm bit down on his lips. It wasn't cold at all, and with the thermoblanket and the fire close by, Trip should be sweating rather than freezing. His uniform was almost dry again, so that couldn't be it.

Malcolm took out the bioscanner again and switched it on. Trip's body temperature had reached 38, 5 degrees and his pulse was up as a result of the blood loss. At least, Malcolm noticed with relief, he wasn't showing any signs of going into shock.

"You've got a fever. That's where the chills are coming from." Malcolm moved over to tuck the thermoblanket under Trip's sides, taking care not to bump into the propped-up leg. He picked up the water bag. "Here, drink some more."

Trip allowed Malcolm to hold the water bag to his lips, but after two mouthfuls he turned his head away. "You have some, too," he said hoarsely.

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't need the fluid replacement, remember? I'll find us more water in the morning, so don't worry about saving it."

Trip only looked at him, and Malcolm could have kicked himself. "If Enterprise hasn't picked us up by then," he added, but it sounded lame even to his own ears.

He expected Trip to make a caustic comment, but the engineer only turned his head away and stared into the flames. After a while he spoke again, quietly.

"They'll have to be amputated, right?"

Malcolm had been afraid of that question. He had great faith in Phlox' abilities as a surgeon, but even Phlox couldn't work miracles.

"Maybe,"he said quietly. "I'm sure Phlox will do all he can, though."

Trip only nodded and closed his eyes.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you for reviewing!

* * *

5

Malcolm leaned against the tree that sheltered their campsite, his eyes on the horizon. A glimmer of pale red light had appeared there a few minutes ago, the first harbinger of the sun that would soon emerge from the sea. Malcolm welcomed the return of the daylight. He hadn't slept much, nodding off from time to time only to jerk awake again when the fire snapped or a nocturnal animal screeched in the distance. All in all, he estimated he had gotten about forty minutes of real sleep, give or take.

Trip had insisted that he could stand guard for a while until Malcolm had become quite impatient with the Commander, pointing out that he would be "lying guard" rather than "standing", and that there was rather little point to such an exercise. After that, Trip had sulked in silence, and in the process had nodded off. Malcolm hadn't woken him up, not even when he got his chicken curry from the fire. The food was lukewarm at best, and he was sure that it wouldn't hurt the meatloaf to sit there for another few hours. Trip could still eat when he was feeling a little better.

Malcolm poked the fire with a piece of driftwood, watching the sparks go up like a cloud of startled fireflies. Lightning bugs, Trip would call them, Malcolm thought as he watched the sparks disappear one by one. He and Madeline used to chase fireflies in the field behind their parents' home, catching the tiny insects in preserving jars he had snuck out of the larder. Mesmerized by the strange, eery glow of the bugs, they had frightened each other with ghost stories until they were both so wound up that they liberated the captive insects and ran back to the safety of the well-lit house, scared by their own courage. Malcolm grinned. Just as well that their father had never noticed the "nonsense" going on in his back garden.

Trip sighed, and Malcolm glanced over at the sleeping man. He knew he shouldn't have been so short with Trip earlier. Granted, it was mostly his worry that had made him snap at the engineer, but that was no excuse, really. He sighed. Trip would handle this so much better than he, if their roles were reversed and Malcolm were the one depending on Trip's help. Lieutenant Reed might be good at finding campsites or building a fire, but he wasn't great company, had never been. Malcolm had no illusions about that.

He fed the fire again, picked up the bio scanner and went over to where Trip lay wrapped up in the thermoblanket. Trip's temperature seemed to have settled at a steady 38 degrees, which wasn't ideal but lower than it had been the evening before. There were still no signs of shock setting in, although a slight infection had developed in one of the toes. Malcolm checked the makeshift bandage and was relieved to see that no fluids, blood or other, had soaked through it. By any luck, Trip would be back on the ship and in Phlox' capable hands before the infection became worse.

He sat down in the sand next to the sleeping man. The pale streak of light at the horizon had become broader, and Malcolm knew that it wouldn't be long now until the sun reappeared. He wondered how long it had been since he had last stayed up to watch a sunrise. Ages, he supposed. And more likely than not, he had been alone at the time.

He tilted his head back to look at the fading stars. Something had happened to Enterprise, but Malcolm refused to believe that she wasn't still somewhere up there. He only wished he could have been aboard if there had been an attack.

"Mornin'," a croaky voice said next to him, and he glanced down to find Trip awake, blinking at him with eyes still puffy from sleep.

Malcolm smiled. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Better." Trip licked his lips. "Thanks for lettin' me sleep through."

It was a peace offering, and Malcolm thought, slightly ashamed, that he should have been the one to make it.

"That's all right," he said, and then, taking a deep breath, "I'm sorry for what I said the other night. I was out of line."

"That's okay." Trip grinned, the Commander's way of letting him know that there were no hard feelings. "Though you should get some sleep yourself, some time soon."

"I slept a little, now and then," Malcolm admitted.

"Can't have been long, seein' that you've kept the fire goin'."

Malcolm sighed. He didn't want to start the discussion all over again, much less since he could feel the impatience of the night before returning.

"I ate while you were asleep," he said, nodding at the empty dish he had left next to the fire. "How about some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for breakfast?"

Trip nodded, although he didn't seem very enthusiastic at the idea of food. "Sounds fine."

Malcolm helped his friend move over to the tree so that he could lean against it while he was eating. Trip didn't make a sound, and only winced a little when Malcolm slid the boot back under his injured foot. Malcolm inwardly shook his head.

_As if I didn't know that it hurts like hell._

"Here," he said and handed Trip the water bag, which had shrunk to almost half its original size. Trip drank greedily, then gave the bag back to Malcolm, who pretended to take a sip himself before he closed the lid again. He wasn't in the mood for discussions about the water rationing.

"Thanks," Trip said, and Malcolm noticed that he looked a little better. Making a mental note to go looking for more water on the first possible occasion, he opened the food container and handed it to the other man. "Careful, it's hot."

Trip used two corners of the thermoblanket like oven gloves and set the dish down on his lap. "Looks good."

Malcolm glanced at the grayish blob next to the brown brick that was supposedly the meatloaf, and wondered how anyone could find the sight of it appealing, let alone the smell.

"I suppose it does."

"You just don't know a good thing when you see it, Loo-tenant."

"Like you do?" Malcolm had meant the reply to come out playfully, matching Trip's tone, and almost startled at the sudden venom in his voice.

"Sorry, Trip, I..." He what? Had a headache? Hadn't slept much? Malcolm shook his head in disgust. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude."

Trip gave him a long look. "You should get some rest. You don't look so good, and I don't think stayin' up all night helped that concussion of yours."

The concussion. Right. He had almost forgotten about it, or rather, chosen not to think about it. It was what Lieutenant Reed suggested he do, and the Lieutenant usually gave sound advice, although Malcolm had a hard time ignoring the throbbing behind his eyes and the nausea lurking at the bottom of his stomach.

"Maybe not," he conceded, too weary to do the usual "I'm fine" routine and endure the teasing that was sure to follow. He'd only end up snapping at Trip again.

"Then lie down for a while." Trip took the shrink-wrapped cutlery out of the container. "I'll take care of the fire in the meantime."

Malcolm glanced at the few pieces of driftwood that were left. They wouldn't last for more than another hour, two at the most, but they didn't exactly need the fire now that the sun was rising. And he was really tired. Tired enough, in fact, that the very idea of lying down for a while made his eyes want to droop.

"Go on," Trip said, and ate a small bite of meatloaf. "Sleep. I'll be okay."

Malcolm sincerely doubted that; he hadn't missed the pallor of Trip's face or the pain lines around his mouth.

"Let me give you another painkiller first." Trip didn't protest, and Malcolm took out the hypospray, adjusting it to another two units.

"You should take some yourself," Trip said, tilting his head so that Malcolm could inject the analgesic into his neck. "Might help you sleep."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'll be all right."

There were another two units left in the first hypo and ten units each in the two spare hyposprays, but Malcolm didn't want to waste them. It wouldn't take him long to fall asleep even without any painkiller.

He handed Trip the phase pistol. "Here, just in case. Wake me if anything happens, alright?"

Trip nodded. "'Kay."

Malcolm eyed him for a moment, wondering if he should stay awake, after all. Trip had eaten only a tiny morsel of his meal, and the hand holding the phase pistol was trembling. No way Trip would be able to take aim, let alone fire a shot like that. And if his condition got worse while Malcolm was asleep...

"Malcolm." Now he sounded exasperated. "I told you, I'll be okay. And I'll wake you if anythin' ugly shows its face, promise."

"But..."

"Malcolm, y'can't stay awake forever. And you're as grumpy as a bear in winter." Trip smiled. "I'd rather you get some shut-eye before you bite my head off."

Malcolm opened his mouth to argue, and closed it again when he realized that Trip was right.

"Very well then," he said. "But wake me after a couple of hours. I need to go look for water, and I'd like to do it before the sun's too high."

"Aye aye Cap'n," Trip said. "Two hours it is."

Malcolm settled down in the shade under the tree, the backpack as a makeshift pillow under his head, and closed his eyes. God, he was _knackered. _And it felt so good to lie down.

"Two hours," he muttered as he slipped into the welcoming darkness, and was asleep before he even heard Trip's reply.

* * *

"Malcolm?"

He was drifting, floating on a sea that gently buoyed him, and for some reason he wasn't afraid at all. Small waves lapped at him, and he actually enjoyed the feeling. The steady thrum of the ocean lulled him into a peaceful daze.

"Malcolm? Mal, wake up."

Reluctantly, Malcolm opened his eyes and blinked in the bright sun. Next to him, Trip was no longer leaning against the tree but lying on the sand again, the thermoblanket bunched around his waist. One hand was clutching the phase pistol, the other one was curled into a fist on his chest.

He looked like hell.

Malcolm cursed under his breath and sat up. The sun was high in the sky, and it was obvious that more than two hours had passed while he had slept.

_Four, more likely_, he thought as he moved to Trip's side. Trip's face was almost white, and there were drops of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Mal, I..." Trip paused to catch his breath. "'m sorry, but I... think I need another painkiller."

Malcolm had already moved to get the medkit. Damn idiot that he was, he had left it where Trip couldn't reach it on his own. "Why didn't you wake me earlier, Trip?"

He didn't quite manage to keep the anger out of his tone, although most of it was directed at himself. He should have remembered the medkit, and he should have never allowed himself to nod off in the first place.

Trip closed his eyes as Malcolm emptied the hypospray into his neck. "Thanks."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Trip sighed. "Malcolm, you were sick. You've got a concussion. I know you're not gonna use any of the hyposprays, but you needed to get some sleep. You still do."

"You could've woken me up to give you another painkiller before it got worse."  
"And you would've gone back to sleep after that?" Trip glanced at him out of one eye, and Malcolm didn't know what to say. Of course he wouldn't have gone back to sleep; Trip knew that very well.

"Didn't think so." Trip licked his dry lips, and Malcolm saw that the water bag was exactly where he had left it earlier. Trip hadn't touched it, either because he was feeling too miserable to think about it or because he wanted to save what little water they had left. Malcolm took a deep breath, then slowly let it out again. Giving Trip grief about his stubbornness wouldn't help their situation in the slightest.

Instead, he picked up the bag. "Come on, let me help you up."

He helped Trip lean back against the tree and unscrewed the lid for him. Trip drank several mouthfuls, coughed a little and drank some more. When he handed the bag back to Malcolm, some of the color had returned into his pale cheeks.

"Go on, drink the rest."

Malcolm hesitated, then took the bag from Trip's outstretched hand. He was parched, and by any luck he would soon locate enough water for both of them to drink their fill.

"Thanks."

The water was tepid and carried a taste of metal, but Malcolm's sore throat welcomed it all the same. When he lowered the bag again, he was surprised to find that the dull headache he had woken up with had lifted.

"Thanks," he said again, referring to the water as well as to Trip's decision to let him rest for a while. It was amazing what a difference a few hours of sleep and a little water could make.

Trip nodded. "That's okay. And Mal..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. You know, for... gettin' me outta that shuttlepod."

Malcolm said nothing. A few months ago during shoreleave, Trip had asked him to join him and the Captain in a little diving tour - "doesn't matter if you've never done it before, the basics are really easy to learn" – and he hadn't let it go until Malcolm confided to him that the mere idea of going for a dive filled him with dread. Malcolm hadn't been sure what to expect; to a professional diver like Trip, "aquaphobia" must sound like another way of spelling "world's greatest wimp". What followed, though, was a simple nod and the suggestion that they go for a hike the next day instead. "I read about these ancient ruins a few kilometer outta town, jus' the thing for a history buff like you.

Trip had never mentioned the aquaphobia again, respecting Malcolm's reluctance to discuss it.

"That's alright," Malcolm said softly. He didn't remember much of the journey to the shore, except that it had been a nightmare, and that he wanted to forget it had ever happened. That was, all but the part when he'd finally stumbled out of the water. That part he had etched in his memory, and he wanted to remember it for a long time.

"Well," he said, getting to his feet and slipping the strap of the water bag over his shoulder. "I'd better be going then." He glanced at the fire, which had burned down to a few white lumps of charcoal. "I'll gather more wood on the way back. We should also try and stock up our food supplies; the two ration packs we've got left won't last long." There was a small, awkward pause. "Just in case."

"Just in case, yeah." Trip looked at the horizon and shook his head. "I'd really like to know what's taking them so long."

"I'm sure we'll know soon," Malcolm tried to put as much conviction into his voice as he could muster. "I'm certain that there's a perfectly logical explanation."

Not that a logical explanation was always a reassuring one, his mind added treacherously.

Trip sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right." He held out the phase pistol. "You better take that with you."

Malcolm frowned. "I suggest you keep it until I'm back, Commander."

"Malcolm..." Trip seemed to have noticed his expression, for he continued in a more conciliatory tone. "Look, there's not much that can happen to me here, so you might as well take it."

Malcolm wanted to point out that there was quite a lot that could happen to a helpless person in an unknown terrain, but on second thought he decided against it. Trip had a point; it didn't seem that there were many dangers lurking in the small forest of brush trees, and in any case, Malcolm wasn't planning to move out of hearing range.

"Very well then." He took the phase pistol and for lack of a holster kept it loosely in one hand. "Just let me know if anything happens, all right?"

"Deal."

Malcolm picked up the backpack and the bio scanner, in case he came across anything that looked edible. "Good."

He bit down on the "Are you going to be all right?" before it could leave his mouth. Trip was trying hard not to let on about his condition, and constantly having to reassure Malcolm that he was okay wouldn't make it any easier.

"I'll be back soon."

Trip nodded in reply. "'Kay. See ya then."

* * *

Malcolm hadn't expected to come across any watercourse this close to the sea, and so he was surprised to discover a small creek as soon as he stepped out of the undergrowth. The narrow streamlet was overgrown with shrubs and plants that reminded him of water lilies, and it took him a while until he found a spot where he could kneel down to refill the water bag. Tiny orange water snakes streaked away as he held the bio scanner over the surface. When he was certain that the water wasn't contaminated or contained any bacteria unsuitable to human digestion, Malcolm scooped up a handful of the cold liquid and brought it to his mouth. He was desperately thirsty, and the water acted like a natural analgesic, soothing his aching throat and washing away the remains of the headache.

He drank until his stomach felt close to bursting, then unscrewed the bag and immersed it in the water. Bubbles rose up, and Malcolm noticed a fish, fifteen centimeters long and of a translucent turquoise, hovering close by in the current. He considered trying to catch it, but decided against it when he remembered that they still had two ration packs of untouched food left. Still, it was good to know that there was a potential source of fresh fish close by... just in case.

When the bag was full, Malcolm screwed the lid back on and stood up. He'd only had eyes for the water before, but now he noticed that the landscape surrounding him was actually quite beautiful. Adjoining the creek there was a grassy slope that led to another forest, or rather a jungle compared to the sparsely growing brush trees behind him. There were tall, mangrove-like trees with a netting of roots, overgrown with climbing plants whose red and yellow flowers looked both elegant and poisonous. He'd need a machete to get through that thicket, Malcolm thought, wondering if it would be worth the risk. True, all the animal life he could see were small, exotic-looking birds and a furry glimpse of something that might have been a tree-dwelling mammal, but that didn't mean there wasn't the local equivalent of a tiger lurking in there.

Malcolm paused. For a moment there, he'd thought he'd heard a faint noise, almost like a hum. It didn't fit in with the chirping of the birds, and he had almost decided that he must have been mistaken when he heard it again, louder this time. The sound of an aircraft approaching.

Malcolm didn't waste another glance on the nearby jungle or the creek. Shrugging the strap of the water bag onto his shoulder, he ran back the way he had come, almost stumbling on the undergrowth. He hardly noticed at all when the stalks of the brush trees whipped into his face. Enterprise had come, they'd finally come, and he wanted to see the shuttlepod when it landed on the beach. Malcolm picked up his pace, he could already see the campsite now...

... and stopped dead in his tracks.

_Oh bloody hell._

The aircraft on the beach was of a kind he had never seen before. Its sleek design and maroon hull plating were vaguely familiar, yet the emblem on its side – an angular symbol that might have been a spear or an axe – he had never encountered before.

The craft shuddered slightly as the engines were deactivated, and Malcolm quickly moved behind one of the trees, his hand tightening on the phase pistol. At the campsite, Trip had propped himself up on one elbow, and Malcolm saw him throwing a quick glance over his shoulder before his eyes returned to the aircraft.

Malcolm sat very still. He wanted to call out to Trip, but knew that he might need the element of surprise in whatever was about to happen. By any luck, whoever came out of that aircraft would never see him behind the trees and the curtain of fruit stalks.

A side hatch was lowered, and Malcolm took aim, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. If he had to shoot, he'd have to take them down quickly, no matter how many there were. There was nowhere Trip could take cover from the answering fire.

A figure climbed out of the hatch, and Malcolm stared, too surprised to be relieved that no one had opened fire on Trip. The man on the beach, clad in an austere, dark green uniform, was a Vulcan.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you all very much for your reviews, I loved reading your speculations about the Vulcans!

As for the Vulcan words and expressions I used in this story, I'd like to acknowledge that I got most of them from the Vulcan Language Dictionary, compiled by Selek (Marketa Z.) from Vulcan Language Institute (it seems that such a thing actually exists!). Here's the link (please insert the the slashes and dots):

www(dot)starbase(slash)10(dot)de(slash)vld(slash)

I invented sort of a grammar myself (I expect real Vulcan grammar would be a lot more complicated ;) ), so that's where all the apostrophes and added letters come from. If anyone's really interested in what the Vulcans are saying, I'd be happy to put a short "introductory to Vulcan grammar" under my next chapter. Just let me know (and yes, I know I'm a language freak ;)!)

Enjoy!

---------------------------

6

Malcolm got up. Vulcans. The only explanation he could think of was that something had happened to Enterprise, something that not only prevented the Captain from rescuing them, but called for Vulcan intervention.

_She's been destroyed_, an all too familiar voice said in his mind, and he listened in spite of himself. _These are obviously special forces. Why else would they send the Vulcan S.A.S., unless there's been a real emergency?_

Two more uniformed Vulcans had followed the first one, and Malcolm noticed that they were carrying sidearms of a kind he had never seen before. The tallest one of them drew his weapon and looked around as if he were expecting an attack. Malcolm frowned. The Vulcans must know that this was an uninhabited planet, and it wasn't as if Trip and he posed any threat. Something was seriously wrong here.

One of the Vulcans, a young woman with short black hair, glanced down at a scanning device in her hand and raised her head, pointing in the direction of their campsite. Malcolm was about to leave his hiding place when suddenly all three of the Vulcans pulled out their weapons. The tallest one, apparently the commander, called out a few harsh-sounding words.

"_Sasarlah'a, komihnu! I'sasarlah'a!"_

Malcolm didn't move, still concealed behind the trees. This was more than strange. The Vulcan commander knew that he was addressing humans, and while not all Vulcans spoke English, they usually made use of the UT. Only few humans spoke fluent High Vulcan, let alone any of the dialects.

"_I'sasarlah'a, komihnu!"_ the commander called out again, and this time Malcolm picked up the second word. _Komihnu._ Humans. So the commander was indeed talking to them, although his manner of address was unlike anything Malcolm had ever heard from the polite and well-spoken Vulcans he had met.

The woman said a few words to him, too quietly for Malcolm to understand. In response, the commander pointed his weapon in the direction she indicated, and the three of them began to climb the slope, quickly approaching the campsite.

Malcolm clutched the phase pistol harder. It wasn't only how the commander had addressed them; Malcolm knew hostility when he saw it, even in a Vulcan. He considered opening fire on them now, but he wouldn't be able to take down all three of them before they had reached Trip. And he had lost the element of surprise he had counted on; the commander had addressed them in the plural, so the woman's scanner had obviously picked up two human bio signs.

Malcolm took a deep breath and slowly stepped out of his hiding place, holding up the phase pistol in an, as he hoped, universal gesture of peace. In the meantime, the Vulcans had reached the top of the slope. The commander took a step forward, his weapon trained on Malcolm now.

"_Mura pohshayek, komihn!"_

Very slowly, keeping his eyes on the man, Malcolm laid the phase pistol onto the sand in front of his feet, then straightened up again. Trip, still propped up on his elbows, was the first one to speak.

"Look, I don't know what's goin' on here, but I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding. We're-"

It was as far as he got. The Vulcans had reached the campsite, and the anger on their faces was unmistakable.

"_Hizhuka!"_

Trip cried out in pain when the woman kicked him hard in the ribs. Malcolm took several quick steps towards her, all caution forgotten.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The commander's dark eyes returned to him, and Malcolm almost took a step back. He had never seen such unrestrained anger on a Vulcan's face.

"_Varibena'etwel tu ar'i kloshai'ne, pau'kaluk!"_

"What the fuck-"

The woman kicked Trip again, harder this time, and Malcolm bit down on his cry of protest. His Vulcan was seriously rusty, but if he had caught the commander's meaning right, then what little he knew would have to do.

"_Trasha'ak_," he said, willing his voice to sound firm. "_Fam dash-tor. Etek fam..."_ He couldn't think of the word for „enemy" and settled for „bad" instead, praying that they would understand what he was trying to tell them. The woman's weapon was trained directly on Trip's head.

"_Etek fam et'liwh."_

Trip turned around to look at him, and Malcolm met his eyes, trying to convey a mute message: _Don't say anything._

_Rebels_, he thought. These Vulcans had to be some sort of rebels, like Tolaris and his crew, and for some reason hostile towards humans. Fortunately, Trip seemed to have understood and remained silent, holding his ribs and glowering at the Vulcans, who took little notice of him.

"_Wilat ke'strontorer'si'la, komihn?" _the commander demanded, looking at Malcolm again. "_Vartora!"_

Malcolm got the last part – "tell me!" – but he had no idea what the commander wanted to know. Carefully he shook his head.

"_Akshl'ze,"_ he said. "_Fam ken-tor."_

The Vulcan's mouth grew thin when Malcolm told him that he didn't understand. The smaller man said something, too quickly for Malcolm to catch the words, but the commander ignored him. His weapon still pointed at Malcolm, he made an impatient gesture, and Malcolm slowly began to walk towards him. The man was almost a head taller than he, and Malcolm had to look up to meet the dark eyes. He was startled by what he found there. He had seen indifference on Vulcan faces before, and sometimes a cool aloofness that might have been arrogance, but until now, he had never encountered outright contempt.

The commander stared at him, his eyes narrowing. "_Va namtorak'si nash sai-vel?"_

_Sai-vel_, clothing. He had noticed their uniforms. "Enterprise," Malcolm said. "_Etek yel-hali_. Our ship," he added, wanting to be sure that they got him right. Maybe Trip was right and this _was_ a misunderstanding. "We're Starfleet officers-"

The words had barely left his mouth when the commander backhanded him hard across the face. Malcolm felt blood trickle out of the corner of his mouth, and took an angry step forward.

"What-"

The next thing he knew was pain exploding on the side of his face, and when the world slid back into focus, Malcolm found himself sprawled face-down on the sand. Next to him, Trip was shouting angrily at the Vulcans, who... laughed?

"_Datora, komihn!"_

A boot connected with his ribcage and Malcolm groaned, trying to get up again. His face felt as if he had run into a metal bulkhead, or rather, had been shoved against it with brutal force. He could feel blood running down on either side of his mouth.

"_Hizhuka, pau'kaluk!" _The woman delivered another kick into Trip's side. "_Ke'wartorer variben'etwel pau'kaluku lakh'ne?"_

Malcolm turned to look at the Vulcan commander. "_Sanoi_," he said, or rather tried to say. His lip was split, and it was hard to talk through the blood in his mouth.

As he tried to get to his feet, the commander pushed him back down into the sand with his boot. "_Kuv varibener'si va'ashiv komihnu lakh, prah'er'si kai wonil-zehl."_

'If you speak human language again...'... Malcolm hadn't caught the second part, but it was clear from the commander's tone that he was serious about his threat, whatever it was. He remained silent, and the smaller Vulcan, a stocky man with a hard mouth, said something that made all three of them grin. For some reason, seeing their very Vulcan faces break into smiles was almost as disturbing as the careless cruelty.

Malcolm wiped the blood off his mouth. "_Etek yel-hali_," he said, omitting the word "Enterprise" this time. "_Bolaue'si fun-tor yel-hali."_

The commander ignored him as if he hadn't spoken at all. "_Katau'a au shanhali'na,"_ he said to his two subordinates, who stepped forward.

"_Lamtora, pau'kaluk!"_ The hard-mouthed Vulcan prodded Malcolm with his boot, gesturing for him to get up. As Malcolm stumbled to his feet, he saw the woman reaching for Trip's arm.

"_Rai!"_

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, and Malcolm pointed at Trip's bandaged foot. "_Sanoi, dashtorak!"_

She frowned down at Trip. "_Ke'namtorer kup im'roi?"_

Malcolm didn't dare translate her question, but Trip seemed to have understood that she wanted to know if he could walk. Slowly, he shook his head. "_Rai,_" he said hoarsely.

The commander gave Malcolm a hard push in Trip's direction. "_Goltora ak!"_

'Help him.' It was easier said than done; Trip was hardly able to stand even with Malcolm's assistance, and Malcolm found himself getting dizzy from the exertion of supporting the engineer's full weight. His left cheek was throbbing like a live thing.

"_Haltora!" _The commander pushed Malcolm again, almost sending the two of them back to their knees. "_Weh'sahris!"_

"_Petakov coi'alar,"_ the woman commented from behind. Her hard-mouthed colleague chuckled at what had obviously been an amusing remark.

"_Dvuntora, pau'kaluku."_

The going was slow, even though Trip did his best to shift some of his weight onto his good leg. Malcolm half-dragged, half-carried him down the slope with the Vulcans following shortly after, their weapons held loosely by their sides. They never even lifted a finger to help him, talking quietly among themselves. By the time they had reached the aircraft, Trip's face was as white as a sheet, and he seemed close to passing out. Malcolm almost lost his balance, trying to keep the semi-conscious man upright.

"_Tra'abru!"_ The Vulcan commander roughly grabbed Trip's other arm and began to drag him to the back of the shuttle, Malcolm in tow. "_Dvuntora, bath'pa."_

He opened a hatch and pushed Trip towards it, gesturing with his weapon for them to climb inside. "_Svi'abru!"_

The back of the craft was obviously designed to hold prisoners, separated from the rest of the small vessel by a force field. Malcolm had never seen this kind of technology before, not even on the Vulcan ships he had visited. They must have traded for it, or stolen it somewhere, although it was hard to conceive of Vulcan pirates. Or, on second thought, maybe it wasn't even that hard. These three, at least, didn't give the impression as if they'd hesitate even for a second before taking by force what wasn't given to them willingly.

Prodded by the commander's gun, Malcolm supported Trip as the engineer awkwardly clambered through the hatch.

"_Tu isha!"_ The commander pointed impatiently with his weapon when Malcolm didn't follow immediately. Malcolm hesitated. Asking couldn't hurt, always assuming that he could make himself understood. Trip looked like hell, and it was unlikely that these Vulcans would make it a priority to get him medical attention.

"_Haseret."_ He pointed at their abandoned campsite, then at Trip who was lying on the floor of the holding space. "_Sanoi. Ak... ak dashtorak. Mau dashtorak."_

_Please, let me get the medkit._

The commander gave him a long look. "_Fitorer'e kai, komihn."_

He drew out the last word like an insult, and Malcolm had no doubt that it was meant as one. He said nothing in reply, pretending he didn't feel the Vulcan's eyes between his shoulder blades as he climbed into the holding space after Trip. The hatch almost hit him in the back as it was slammed shut behind him.

"_Palikaue'si,"_ the commander said as he climbed through the side hatch. He didn't spare another glance at the prisoners in the back and sat in the pilot chair, adding another few words that elicited a chuckle from his colleagues. Malcolm felt the deck beneath them shudder as the thrusters were engaged.

He looked at Trip. The engineer was lying on his back, his eyes half-closed, and for a moment Malcolm believed he had passed out.

"Trip?" he asked quietly. "Trip, can you hear me?"

"Yeah..." Trip swallowed and brought a hand to his forehead, as if to wipe off the sweat that had gathered there. "Any idea who they are?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Outlaws, I believe, like Tolaris and his crew. They didn't bother to introduce themselves."

"Didn't know you spoke Vulcan." Trip coughed.

"I took a course at the Academy once, but I'm hardly fluent." He paused, remembering the sudden anger on the Vulcans' faces when Trip had addressed them in English. "I didn't get most of what they said."

_Except that none of it was meant in a complimentary way._

"Any idea what they want?" Trip wanted to know.

Malcolm shook his head. "No, I..."

"_Hizhuka!"_

Malcolm turned his head. The Vulcan woman was standing in front of the force field, glaring at him.

"_Fatorer'si variben, eh kuhshtore'tu'si kai abi khafauer'si lu lashare'si, pau'kaluku!"_

Malcolm noticed Trip's eyes on him and quickly shook his head, never taking his eyes off the woman as she returned to her seat. She couldn't possibly have said what he thought she'd said... could she?

"What..." Trip began, but Malcolm closed a hand over his mouth before he could continue. Shaking his head, he mouthed "no talking", almost relieved that he didn't have to relay the entire message. Which he'd gotten wrong in the first place, of course.

Malcolm leaned back against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest. The silence that followed rested heavily on his ears.

TBC…

_Tantora a'faw, sanoi!_ (Please leave a review ;)! )


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you very much for your reviews!

* * *

7

Captain Archer was displeased. In her time around humans – and this human, in particular – T'Pol had learned to read the signs. Humans had very individual ways of expressing anger and annoyance. Some, like Commander Tucker, swore and raised their voices, others hid their displeasure behind a rigid smile. Captain Archer, for one, stopped talking. Whenever something angered him, he would say as little as possible, and if he did speak, it was curt and to the point. It was why T'Pol hadn't been able to sense his anger for a long time; she hadn't recognized the absence of "small talk" as an indication that anything was amiss. Among Vulcans, silence was a sign that everything was going well, and that there was no need to exchange unnecessary information.

Of course, as her crewmates never failed to remind her, she was serving among humans, not Vulcans.

The Captain said nothing on the way to the airlock, and T'Pol didn't try to strike up a conversation. Logic was unlikely to convince him to see the situation in a better light, and she was hardly qualified to "cheer him up" as a human might have done.

Schwartz and Hsan from Security had already taken up their positions next to the entrance.

"Open the airlock, Ensign," Archer said to Hsan, offering her no greeting as he would have done under different circumstances.

"Aye, sir." Hsan pressed a few buttons on a wall panel, and the sealing around the airlock opened with a hiss. Archer straightened his back as the bulkhead slid aside.

The gray-haired woman who stepped out of the airlock was small by Vulcan standards, much like T'Pol herself. Like many captains of the Vulcan fleet, she had chosen to wear her ornamented clan robes instead of a uniform; not, as a human might think, out of vanity or self-importance, but to show respect for her people's tradition. T'Pol wondered if the Captain was aware that _Khart-lan_ T'Pyr wasn't trying to intimidate him with her ceremonious attire.

The two men that followed her, a lieutenant and a sub-commander from their rank insignia, kept a respectful distance to their captain.

"Captain Archer," T'Pyr said and raised a hand in the traditional _ta'al_ greeting. Archer hesitated for a second, then, to T'Pol's surprise, mirrored the gesture.

"Captain T'Pyr," he said, looking at the two men as well. "Welcome aboard Enterprise."

"Lieutenant Mevak and Sub-commander Halan," T'Pyr introduced her two subordinates, who inclined their heads. T'Pol noticed that Mevak, the smaller, slighter of the two men, seemed quite young to be serving on a space vessel. Halan looked only marginally older, with light brown hair and a fair complexion that indicated he'd been born in Han-shir, the only continent where the sun hadn't darkened the Vulcans' hair and faces over the millennia.

T'Pyr turned to address T'Pol, her hand still raised in the _ta'al_. "_Dif-tor heh smusma_," she said, and T'Pol lifted her own hand in return.

"_Sochya eh dif_," she replied with the traditional phrase, then looked at Mevak and Halan. _"Nashaya'na tu'si isha."_

The two acknowledged her greeting with another inclination of the head. A human wouldn't have noticed, but T'Pol could see that the two young men were trying, and not quite succeeding to mask their nervousness. It was probably the first time either of them set foot on a human ship; maybe even the first time they met a human face-to-face.

"Starfleet convey their thanks for your assistance," Archer said to T'Pyr, his tone uncharacteristically formal. He had been reluctant to ask the High Command for help, even after T'Pol pointed out that her people had far greater experience in dealing with spatial anomalies. Finally, he had agreed, giving in to the only argument she knew would convince him: There was a greater chance to rescue Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed if he accepted the Vulcans' assistance. In compliance with T'Pol's request, the High Command had sent the _Vuhnaya_, Vulcan's state-of-the-art science vessel, to cooperate with Enterprise in the search for the two missing officers.

Archer hadn't mentioned it to anyone, but T'Pol knew him well enough to realize that his pride had taken a blow. He wasn't the only one who resented the Vulcan ship's arrival; she had overheard several... discontented conversations between crewmembers during the past few days. _"Hate it that we're running to the pointy ears for help again."_

"Thanks are not necessary," T'Pyr replied. "I would appreciate it if Sub-commander T'Pol sent us the data you have gathered so far. Lieutenant Mevak and Subcommander Halan will assist you in aligning your scanning equipment. If you have no objections, they will remain on board your ship for the time being."

Archer seemed less than pleased with her peremptory manner, but he merely nodded in reply. "Of course." He gestured at the corridor. "Please, follow me. I've had my chef prepare a meal for your arrival."

"I appreciate the offer, Captain, but I will presently return to my ship. Mevak, Halan, _sailau'a'ak kai_. T'Pol..."

With another slight bow of her head, T'Pyr turned around and left. T'Pol suppressed a sigh. She knew that Archer considered himself "snubbed", and naturally so; by human standards, T'Pyr had been downright rude. T'Pol suspected that much of T'Pyr's bluntness originated from her unfamiliarity with spoken English; many Vulcans learned the language through a computer program, and perfected their accent by following phonetic instructions without ever having spoken to an actual human. The results, as T'Pol knew of her own experience, ranged from slightly amusing to disastrous.

Mevak and Halan were still standing in the corridor, looking somewhat lost with their captain gone. T'Pol stepped forward.

"Captain, I am sure that our guests will appreciate the refreshments Chef has prepared."

"Indeed," Halan said quietly. "We will have much appreciation for the offer of a meal."

Archer seemed surprised, both at his reaction and the noticable accent in the young Vulcan's stilted English.

"It's my pleasure." He nodded at the two small traveling bags the Vulcans were carrying. "You can leave your things here; Ensign Schwartz will take them to your quarters."

"Aye sir," Schwartz said, taking the bags from the Vulcans.

Halan hesitated, obviously trying to remember the right phrase. "I thank you."

"You're welcome," Archer answered. His posture had relaxed, and he seemed to have forgotten about the Vulcan captain's perceived rudeness. "If there's anything you need, please let me or the quartermaster know."

The sub-commander bowed his head. "We will."

Archer smiled, and T'Pol was surprised in spite of herself. T'Pyr's departure from common human conversational patterns had irritated the Captain, but the same didn't seem to be true for his reaction to Halan and Mevak.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow as she followed Archer and their two guests down the corridor. Humans were hard to understand at times.

* * *

"Trip."

Malcolm laid a hand on Trip's shoulder. The sleeping man stirred, and Malcolm tightened his grip.

"Trip." He kept his voice down to a whisper. "Wake up. We're there."

This time, Trip opened his eyes. For a moment, he didn't seem to remember where he was, his fever-glazed eyes traveling aimlessly over the metal wall plating and the force field before they finally settled on Malcolm.

"What-"

Malcolm shook his head and laid a finger on his lips. He didn't want to risk being overheard.

A shudder ran through the deck as the thrusters were deactivated. On the other side of the force field, the Vulcans got to their feet, the two subordinates following the commander to the hatch. Malcolm noticed that they had slipped their weapons back into the holsters, and for a moment he entertained the idea of trying to grab one of the guns. He shouldn't have given his phase pistol up so easily, he thought, although he knew that he'd had no choice. If he had fired at the Vulcans, he might as well have signed Trip's death warrant.

Escape would be almost impossible under the circumstances.

The hatch was opened, and Malcolm instinctively reached back to grasp Trip's shoulder. Outlined against the bright sun, he could make out the forms of the Vulcan commander and another man.

"_Sasarlah'a,"_ the commander ordered, drawing his weapon when Malcolm didn't obey immediately. "_I'sasarlah'a."_

Malcolm helped Trip into a sitting position. The engineer was trembling, burning up. Trip's condition had worsened considerably since the morning, and the repeated kicks in the ribs hadn't helped. Very aware of the weapon trained on them, Malcolm climbed through the hatch, supporting Trip who could hardly stand up straight.

One arm looped around Trip's waist to keep him steady, Malcolm looked around. A prison was the first thing that came to his mind as he surveyed the large paved yard, the high walls and the elongated brick building in the back. Next to another, smaller building, several aircrafts were parked along a wall, each of them bearing the weapon symbol he had noticed before. On the other side of the yard, there was a huge, iron-enforced gate. Two uniformed Vulcans were standing guard next to it, their energy rifles slung over the shoulders.

This wasn't a pirate hideout, Malcolm realized. If anything, it looked like the headquarters of an old POW camp.

"_Muhl torer'si_," the man next to the commander said. Malcolm looked at him. He was tall, clad in the same austere green uniform as the commander and his crew. A well-trimmed beard hid part of his angular face, and his long hair was tied at the nape of his neck, the black interspersed with the occasional silver strand. Two sharp lines framed the thin mouth.

Dangling from the man's hand, was a short whip.

"_Namtore'mu ac'ruth wilat strontorak'si'la, Osu_," the commander said. "_Ak_"- he pointed at Malcolm – "_pi'varibenak V'tosh lakh._."

Malcolm caught the second part - 'he speaks a little Vulcan'. The man with the whip raised his eyebrows with an air of mild contempt.

"_Os-shidik_," he said, and although Malcolm didn't recognize the word, he could pretty much guess what it meant.

"_Ak_," the whip was pointed at Trip. "_Sadau'ak has-bosh_."

The commander moved his chin, expressing indifference. "_Ash'ya akre dashtorak'la._"

In spite of himself, Malcolm was beginning to get angry. The way the bearded man looked at them, they might as well be two exotic animals caught on a foray in the jungle.

He took a deep breath. "_Ak'shlze,_" he said. "_Ere besu... bolau'ak hassu. Sanoi_," he added reluctantly. 'Please.' He hated to say the word, but Trip really needed the medical attention he was asking for.

The bearded man's face had twitched a little when Malcolm spoke, but he quickly smoothed it out again. He lifted the whip, and Malcolm instinctively raised a hand to fend off the blow. Instead of hitting him, the man brought the metal tip of the whip's handle to Malcolm's chin, forcing him to raise his head.

"_Wimishtorer'e kai S'haile, komihn_," he said. His voice was calm, but Malcolm didn't miss the dangerous undertone.

'You will call me _S'haile_.' Malcolm remembered enough of his Academy course to know the implications of the word. _S'haile_, 'lord' or 'master'. He stared back at the Vulcan, lips pressed together.

The silence continued for a second or two. Then, with a movement too fast for Malcolm to anticipate, the bearded Vulcan raised the whip and brought it down hard on Trip's injured foot.

Trip gasped, a scream dying on his lips as he passed out with pain. Malcolm managed to grab him just before he collapsed. Blood was pounding in his head as he lowered the unconscious man to the ground.

"You-"

The Vulcan raised his hand again, and Malcolm fell silent. Another blow like that, and the damage to Trip's ankle might be irreversible.

The whip hovered in the air. "_Bektore, komihn_."

Malcolm held the cool gaze for another second, then lowered his eyes. "_S'haile_." The word left a bad taste on his tongue, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the Vulcan again. Instead, he knelt down on the ground next to Trip. The engineer moaned faintly when Malcolm rested a hand on his shoulder, and Malcolm tightened his grip in silent reassurance.

_Bloody bastards._

The commander chuckled. "_Skasau'er yeht kohminu, Zhel-lan Silak."_

The man addressed as Silak didn't laugh or react in any way, almost as if he resented the amusement. Ignoring the commander, he turned around and called to two passing guards.

"_Katau'a au svikel komihnu!"_

"_Ah, Osu_." The guards hurried to obey. One of them picked Trip up as easily as if he were a small child and slung him over his shoulder; the other one prodded Malcolm with the tip of his boot.

_"Lamtora, pau'kaluk_!"

Malcolm got up, slowly following the guard who was carrying Trip. He felt Silak's eyes on him as they crossed the yard, and forced himself not to look back.

As they approached the brick building, Malcolm noticed that there were bars in front of the small windows. Obviously this was a prison of sorts, although he couldn't imagine who the Vulcans were keeping here, and why. He couldn't see over the high walls that surrounded the yard, so there was no way to find out whether this was some sort of military base, a camp or something entirely else. He routinely checked the place for security gaps, but there were none. Except for the gate, there was no way out, and the security cameras placed on the walls made sure that no one would get even as far as that.

The guard nudged him in the back. Malcolm climbed the few steps that led to the entrance of the building, watching out of the corner of his eye as the other guard entered a combination of numbers into a panel next to the door. Even if he'd been familiar with the characters, he couldn't have memorized the code; the guard's fingers moved too fast.

The door slid aside, and Malcolm received a push into the small of his back that made him stumble. His eyes were still adapted to the bright glare of the sun, and so for a moment he could see nothing at all. As his vision slowly adjusted to the dim light, he saw that they had entered a long hallway, stretching from one end of the building to the other. Bars lined it on either side, and behind the bars Malcolm could make out the outlines of people; sitting, crouching, hunkered under blankets, stretched out on the floor. Only few of them raised their heads as the guards came in; most didn't even seem to notice. Some of them, Malcolm noticed, were children.

All of them were human.

_"Haltora!"_

The guard pushed him again, and Malcolm resumed walking, unable to look away from the prisoners on the other side of the bars. They were dressed in old, often ragged Vulcan-style clothes, lowering their heads and whispering quietly among themselves when the guards walked by. Here and there one of them glanced up, and once Malcolm thought he had seen a glimpse of hate in the eyes of a young man. The eyes were quickly averted, though, and the man's face disappeared again in the cowering crowd. Even the air in the room was stale, as if it had absorbed the general atmosphere of desolation and fear.

More bars divided the two areas into smaller cells, each equipped with a separate door. The guard carrying Trip opened one of them with an electronic key.

_"Svi'abru!" _ Prodded by the other guard, Malcolm stepped into the cell and turned around just in time to catch Trip before he crashed to the floor. The guard had simply let go of him. Malcolm helped the semi-conscious man to the floor, careful not to jostle the injured foot. The barred door was slammed shut behind them, the loud noise reverberating in the oppressing silence like a gunshot.

The guards left, and Malcolm looked around for something to make Trip more comfortable on the tiled floor.

_"La." _One of their cellmates, a blond woman who was about Hoshi's age, held out a frayed blanket. _"Na'ak."_ She nodded at Trip.

"Thanks," Malcolm said quietly. The woman's eyes widened and flickered to the guards next to the entrance.

"_Duhsu_," hissed one of the other occupants of the cell, an old man wrapped in a black cloak. _"Kuhshtorak'si'etek kai!"_

Malcolm stared at them. He hadn't noticed this before, but now he registered that the quiet hum of conversation in the cells around him wasn't English, but Vulcan. Obviously, the "human language" the commander and his crew had taken exception to was officially banned in this place.

He turned away from their cellmates' hostile stares and began to wrap Trip in the blanket. The engineer's eyes were half-closed, and there was a thin film of sweat on his face, droplets of it trickling down his temples and into his damp hair. Malcolm carefully wiped them away, wishing he could have done more. At least the bandage was still more or less in place, although some blood had soaked through the gauze. At a closer look, Malcolm saw that a few of the red stains were circled with yellow. So the wounds had become infected. No wonder Trip's condition had deteriorated so rapidly.

"_La_." The woman was back, holding a bundle of fabric that looked like an old, crumpled jacket. _"Na'akre patam."_ She indicated that he should slip the bundle under Trip's head.

Malcolm hesitated, then took it from her outstretched hands. "_Shaya tonat_," he said. Her face relaxed.

_"Fam bolayatik."_

He slid the makeshift pillow under Trip's head, then leaned down and whispered into Trip's ear, very softly so that only the engineer would hear him. "You okay?"

Trip nodded weakly.

"Don't say anything." Malcolm glanced back at their cellmates, who didn't seem to pay him any attention. "They don't seem too keen on English here."

Trip nodded again, and Malcolm was relieved to see it. For a moment, he'd feared that Trip was too far out of it to get the warning.

He straightened up again, and met the woman's eyes. Obviously, she'd been watching the exchange and knew that Malcolm hadn't spoken Vulcan. Her face was a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

_"Malcolm Reed namtore_," Malcolm introduced himself

The woman flinched. "_Ke'por shinsarat_?" she hissed. "_Kup'mu tar-tor komihnu ahm'ture la!"_

'You can't use your human name here.' Malcolm stared at her. "_Komihnu ahm?_" he repeated.

She nodded jerkily. "_Tartora V'tosh ahm'ture."_

His Vulcan name. Malcolm slowly shook his head, lacking the vocabulary to tell her that he didn't have a Vulcan name, and that he had no idea what this place, this entire world was all about. It was as if he'd tumbled down the rabbit hole, only that the rabbits down here had pointy ears and punched you if you uttered a single English word in their presence. Why the hell hadn't T'Pol's scanners picked up any biosigns? This place should have been crawling with them, from the looks of it. And while he was at it... if those biosigns hadn't shown up on Enterprise's scanners, maybe their ships hadn't either. Maybe they'd lurked somewhere, hidden by whatever stealth technology they were using, waiting for the _komihnu_ ship to come close enough to destroy her with a single shot...

_"Kin'kur namtore."_

Malcolm looked up. The woman smiled a small, nervous smile and pointed at her hair. _Kin'kur_, 'yellow'. So she'd named herself after the color of her hair.

Or rather, had been named.

"Kin'kur," he repeated.

She nodded. _"Ah."_

"_Wilat namtore'si?" _he asked, gesturing at their surroundings. "_Nash'ra?"_

Kin'kur frowned, the distrust returning to her face in an instant. She apparently found it difficult to believe that he didn't know where he was.

She moved slightly away from him. "_Jasif Sashila_," she said. "_Kroykah ni'droih duhik deshker'lar. Mihrsh namtorak'mu."_

He only caught "stupid questions" from the second part of her answer, but he understood the first part, and it filled him with an unease he could not have explained.

_Jasif Sashila_. The Jasif Colony.

He had never heard of such a place before.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you for reviewing!

Everyone who has been wondering whether you'll have to suffer through Vulcan vocabulary for the rest of the story, please bear with me for one more chapter, LOL!

Enjoy!

-----------------------------

8

Malcolm awoke with a start. Disoriented, he blinked, and a moment later became aware of something hard that was pressing into his back. He'd fallen asleep leaning against the bars that separated their cell from the next one.

He straightened his back, looking around. Trip was still sleeping or unconscious, wrapped in Kin'kur's spare blanket. Next to him on the floor, the evening sun had painted a square of light, patterned with the shadows of the window bars. Malcolm wondered how much time had passed since he had nodded off. Two hours, maybe three? His head was still aching, and his sore body clamored for rest, but Malcolm decided to stay awake for now. Something was going on; there were voices and the clank of metal on metal, as if someone were banging against the cell doors.

The people around him stirred to life, and Malcolm turned around to find that three guards had entered the building. One of them was pushing a wheeled cart while the other two ladled food out of the large container that was sitting on the barrow. The prisoners in the cells closest to the entrance huddled at the bars, watching like hawks as the porridge-like food was distributed into small bowls.

"_Platora!"_

One of the guards swung a whip at the bars, and the people backed away, their eyes still on the food. The whole scene reminded Malcolm of feeding time at the pound, only without the barking and growling. The first door was unlocked, and the guards pushed the bowls into eagerly outstretched hands. One man dropped some of his food, and immediately knelt down to scrape it back into his bowl. No one spared him so much as a second look.

The cart was pushed to the next cell, followed by many hungry eyes. Malcolm watched, too, wondering if these Vulcans knew or cared that the human body needed more sustenance than the Vulcan metabolism. At least they'd provided water in a bucket. Malcolm had tried to get Trip to drink some of it earlier, but the other man had only turned his head away when Malcolm held the dented cup to his lips.

In the meantime, the guards had reached the cell next to theirs. The whip slapped against the bars, but the prisoners hardly seemed to notice, set as they were on getting their share of the food. All the same, there was no scrambling for the bowls, and Malcolm watched as the adults made room for a little girl and let her have the first portion. For some reason, he was relieved. This would have been a lot worse if the prisoners had turned on each other, as if they really were starved dogs in a pound.

"_Fam tu!"_

One of the guards raised his whip, pushing back a young man who had come forward to receive his share. Malcolm recognized him; it was the man whose eyes had filled with hate when the guards had entered with him and Trip.

Now the hate flashed up again, mingling with despair. "_S'haile-"_ the man began, and broke off when the whip came up again.

"_Hizhuka, pau'kaluk! Fam yem-tukh na'tu!"_

The man hesitated, then stepped back. His empty hands balled into fists as he watched the rest of the prisoners receive their food.

Kin'kur, who had watched the incident as well, sighed and shook her head. Malcolm gave her a questioning look, indicating the man.

The blond woman sighed again. "_Yonsavas_," she said. "_Rihagik namtorak. Silak kuhshtorak'la'ak za-gad, eh a'ficak'la fam ak prah yem-tukh."_

Malcolm looked back at Yonsavas, who was going hungry on Silak's orders. The young man had retreated to a corner of the cell, where he sat with his face turned to the wall.

The guard sniggered. "_Duhik pau'kaluk."_

_Pau'kaluk_. These Vulcans used the word all the time, but Malcolm was fairly sure it had never been mentioned in his Academy course. He looked at Kin'kur. "_Ra'tvai pau'kaluk?"_

She stared at him, obviously unable to believe that he didn't know the meaning of the word. "_Ke'wilat shinahp'tu paktorer'la?"_

Malcolm shrugged to indicate that he hadn't understood her question. "_Ra'tvai?" _he repeated.

Kin'kur brushed her hair back and pointed at her ear. "_Kaluk_," she said.

He nodded, remembering now.

She traced the round shape with her finger. "_Pauk."_

And Malcolm understood. _Pau'kaluk_, 'round-ear'. He didn't need to ask Kin'kur to explain the implications. Humans had similar terms of derogation, some outdated and only of historical importance, some quite new... like "pointy-ears", for instance. There were people back on Earth who used the term quite freely when referring to their Vulcan allies, and although Malcolm himself had never employed it, it was only because the occasion had never presented itself. He had always thought it a harmless word, if slightly disrespectful - all in good fun, naturally.

Kin'kur smiled her nervous smile. "_Sahris_," she said, getting to her feet. "_Il prah'si'mun kai fan-yem-tukh."_

Malcolm followed her, not so much because he was worried about his share of the food disappearing in someone else's mouth, but because he wanted to talk to the guards. He wouldn't leave Trip without medical attention for another night, if he could at all help it.

The cell door creaked as it was opened, and the throng of people around Malcolm stretched out their hands. The guards all but threw the bowls at them, not caring if the steaming food slopped over as they handed it out. Next to him, Kin'kur grabbed one of the bowls and began to shove the food into her mouth with her fingers, her other hand clutching the small bowl like a lifeline.

Malcolm deliberately waited until everyone had received their share, then stepped forward. He had gone over the words several times, knowing that the guards wouldn't take the time to listen if he couldn't make himself clear right away. He'd have given anything to have Hoshi here right now... or, on second thought, maybe not. He wouldn't want any of the Enterprise crew in this place.

After a moment's indecision, Malcolm addressed the guard behind the cart, the oldest of the three and apparently the one in charge.

"_S'haile_. _Nash sasu..."_ he pointed at Trip, "_namtorak mau hash-bosh. Bolau'ak hassu. Sanoi."_

"_Hizhuka!"_ One of the other guards lifted his whip, lowering it again when the man behind the cart raised a hand. The elderly Vulcan frowned at Trip.

"_Ke'namtorer'si uzh'u?"_ he asked, and thankfully, Malcolm understood the question. 'Are you the new ones?'

He nodded. "_Ah."_

"_Silak_ _a'ficak'la nem-tor'ak'si." _The guard nodded at one of his younger colleagues. "_Zaprah'ak!"_

The younger Vulcan didn't seem pleased with the order he'd been given. He wrinkled his nose as he stepped into the cell, pushing the prisoners who didn't get out of his way in time.

"_Bath'pa vlau,"_ he muttered as he walked over to where Trip lay. Malcolm watched, tense. He'd only caught Silak's name, and wasn't sure if this was really about getting Trip to a doctor. Always assuming they even had one.

The guard tossed the blanket aside, grabbed Trip under the arms and hoisted the unconscious body over his shoulder. Trip didn't even stir, his arms dangling limply.

Malcolm found himself prodded by a whip. "_Tu isha."_ 'You, too.'

He noticed Kin'kur's eyes on him as he followed the guard, not sure what to make of her expression. Pity seemed to come quite close, and he wondered if it had been a mistake to address the guards. Trip's condition was serious, yes, but he would have survived another night, another few days. Now, however... what if the Vulcans decided that the ill human was nothing but a burden? Malcolm swallowed, hard. They were _Vulcans_. He couldn't imagine...

"_Weh'sahris!"_

The guard carrying Trip prodded him again, directing him towards the door, and Malcolm understood that he was supposed to walk in front of the Vulcan. The other two guards stayed behind, moving on to the adjoining cell to feed the next load of hungry prisoners.

Malcolm noticed more than a few eyes following them as he walked past the rows of cells. _Dead man walking_, he thought, but it wasn't funny. This entire situation seemed like a parody of human-Vulcan relations, a political satire, but it wasn't humorous in the least. The human prisoners' pain and despair were real, and Malcolm had to admit to himself that these Vulcans – rebels, terrorists, whatever they were – frightened him. They seemed so... out of control. That was what unsettled him the most. They laughed, swore, and except for Silak not one of them had tried to suppress their emotional responses. Even their body language was less restrained. None of the Vulcans Malcolm had met back on Earth would have expressed their distaste for the human body odor quite so openly.

They left the prison wing, and Malcolm slowed for a moment as they stepped outside. The yard was flooded with orange light from the evening sun, but that was not what caught his attention. The large iron gate on the other side of the yard had been opened, and outside, he could see a street, and... houses? Not merely houses, he realized; there was an entire city out there, built on a gently sloping mountain area which leveled out into a wide valley. Malcolm saw huge, Vulcan-style mansions, parks, and in the middle of the city, square structures that could only be factories and warehouses. The entire scenery was bathed in warm golden light, and he was surprised how beautiful it was. It looked wealthy and luxurious, like a Vulcan holiday resort... if such a thing even existed.

It was certainly no quickly assembled rebel colony.

"_Haltora!"_

He was prodded again from behind, the guard's voice startling him.

"_Tra'abru."_ The Vulcan pointed at the smaller building across the yard. Malcolm resumed walking, still troubled by what he had seen. T'Pol's sensors wouldn't have missed a settlement of that magnitude, even if the Vulcans were using stealth technology. So what was this place? He wondered if he should simply ask the guard, but dismissed the idea a moment later. He wasn't sure yet how much he wanted to give away about himself and Trip; knowledge that the Vulcans didn't have might work to their advantage at some point.

The guard didn't seem to have noticed his reaction. Nudging Malcolm occasionally with the whip, he herded him across the yard towards the smaller building.

"_Kup'haltorer svi'udish_," the guard at the entrance said.

The other guard inclined his head in acknowledgement, and pushed Malcolm through the door and into another corridor, this one lined with doors on either side.

"_Abru."_ The guard opened a door to the left.

Malcolm almost stopped walking when he saw who was inside the room. Sitting behind a desk, there was an elderly Vulcan woman in a long red robe, and next to the window stood the man who had beaten Trip unconscious without so much as a batted eye. Silak.

"_Na'shaya, Zhel-lan_," the guard said respectfully, then, looking at the woman, "_Hakausu_."

So this must be the doctor, the Healer. The dark-haired woman rose from her chair, indicating a narrow, battered-looking examination bed in the corner.

"_Tra shitauer'ak_," she said, and the guard obeyed, dropping Trip on the bed as if he were only a sack of rags.

"_Kup'trasha, Ask'ersu_," Silak said curtly.

"_Ah, Osu."_

The guard didn't seem to be feeling too comfortable in the _Zhel-lan'_s presence, either, for he was gone a moment later, the door closing behind him.

"_Mesukh'ya_," Silak said to the Healer. Malcolm had no idea what he was talking about, and involuntarily backed away when she approached him. A slight frown appeared on her face.

"_Lamtora_," she said. Her voice was not unkind, and her dignified presence reminded Malcolm vaguely of T'Pol. He remained where he was, watching as she pulled out a device that looked like a hypospray.

She took his arm. "_Koltah'a'mu_."

Malcolm tried to pull away as she raised the hypo, but she merely tightened her grip and pressed the device against his neck.

A lance of pain went through him, as if she had stabbed him with a screwdriver. Gasping, Malcolm clawed at the place where she had injected him, and brought his palm away smeared with blood. There was something under his skin, he realized; a small bump under his ear like a swollen mosquito bite.

Silak had watched the procedure with no discernible expression on his face. Now, he slowly came closer, eyeing Malcolm as if he were an insect under a glass casing.

"Can you understand me now, human?"

Malcolm stared at him. He'd heard the words in Vulcan, but at the same time they were being translated into English; a sound effect much like the "echo" Hoshi still hadn't quite filtered out of the UT's translations.

Silak had come to stand in front of him. "I do not like having to ask the same questions twice. Do you understand me now?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. _S'haile_," he added at the Vulcan's look, the incident with Trip still vividly in mind.

"Good." Silak turned to the Healer, who had started to examine Trip's foot. "Inject the other one, too."

"Yes, sir."

Trip moaned faintly as she pushed the hypospray against his neck, his eyes moving under the closed lids. In spite of the thin trail of blood that trickled down Trip's neck, Malcolm was almost relieved to see it; at least Trip wasn't too far gone to acknowledge outer stimuli, painful as they might be.

"So," Silak said. "You're obviously not from the colony; our round-ears can speak proper Vulcan. Where did you run away from?"

"We didn't run away," Malcolm said slowly. "We... we had to make an emergency landing close to the coast. Our engines were malfunctioning."

Silak's eyes darkened. "You will tell me the truth, human."

"I am telling you the truth. My friend was hurt in the crash-"

Silak slapped him across the face, and Malcolm stumbled back, tasting blood. "No more lies. It doesn't matter; you will tell the truth, eventually. Now strip."

Malcolm stared at him. "No."

Silak reached out, his fingers closing around the whip that was lying on the desk. "I can see that you're not properly trained. You're definitely not from here. I will say this only once, human..." He raised the whip. "You do not want to make this difficult for yourself. Or your friend."

His eyes flickered meaningfully to Trip. Malcolm thought he had seen a trace of disapproval on the Healer's face, but she said nothing and continued her examination as if Silak and Malcolm weren't there.

There was a sharp smack, and Malcolm cried out, grabbing his leg where Silak had hit him. The Vulcan raised an eyebrow at him. "You do not want me to do that to your friend, do you?"

Breathing heavily, Malcolm stood there for another moment, then reached up to pull down his uniform zipper. Silak would do it; he could see it in the Vulcan's eyes. The _Zhel-lan_ didn't give a shit whether the Healer approved or not.

Malcolm's sore limbs protested as he slipped out of the jumpsuit, then the black undershirt. He stepped out of his boots, too, and was about to pick them up when Silak stopped him with a movement of the head.

"I said strip."

This time, Malcolm didn't protest, and simply pulled off his blue tank top, then let his briefs fall around his ankles. He wasn't going to add to his own humiliation by offering futile resistance. Naked, he stood in front of the Vulcan, who slowly looked him up and down. "He looks healthy to me. Healer?"

The woman didn't glance up from her work. "I will examine him when I am finished with this one."

If there was a note of resentment in her voice, Silak chose to ignore it. In the meantime, the Healer had peeled off the dirty bandage, and the smell of dying flesh and infection filled the room. Malcolm stared at Trip's foot. Where once two healthy toes had been, there were now two blood-caked, deformed lumps of something that no longer looked like human flesh. The discarded bandage was soaked with pus and old, dried blood.

"What is your estimation, Healer?" Silak asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he wasn't only requesting a medical statement. Malcolm swallowed to get rid of a sudden bad taste in his mouth.

_What happens to sick dogs at the pound?_ a familiar voice suggested before he could silence it. _And we're not talking one of those mollycoddling, expensive dog homes here. This is the real deal._

"The infection has spread into his leg," the Healer said. "That is why his temperature is elevated. He's slightly dehydrated as well. I will have to replenish his fluid supplies."

Silak stepped closer to the examination bed and regarded Trip's foot, indifference mingling with mild disgust. "Will it have to come off?"

"The three toes, yes," the Healer replied. "The ankle is a clean fracture, so I should be able to use the osteo-restorer on it."

"Please," Malcolm spoke up, not caring whether Silak took it as a cue to exercise his whip-cracking skills some more. "His great toe is just broken. Maybe there's a way to save it."

The Healer looked at Malcolm for a long moment before she answered, "I will see what I can do."

Silak didn't seem pleased to be left out of the exchange, and moved his chin at Malcolm. "What about him, T'Lys?"

T'Lys hesitated, looking down at her unfinished work on Trip's foot. Then she let out a small sigh and turned around.

"Come here," she said to Malcolm. Reluctantly, he obeyed. Very aware of his exposed body, he kept his eyes straight ahead as she ran a small handscanner over him.

"He's recently suffered a concussion, but it seems to be healing. Other than that, he is healthy, except for the cuts and bruises."

She glanced pointedly at the angry red welt on his leg, but Silak pretended not to have noticed. Roughly, he grabbed Malcolm's arm and felt the muscles, tightening his grip when Malcolm tried to pull away.

"Do not try my patience, human." The Vulcan's hand closed around his jaw and forcibly turned his head from side to side. "He'll look acceptable once the bruises have faded. Better than average, I'd say. A bit small, maybe, but they all are. He should sell well."

At that, Malcolm twisted out of the man's grip. This couldn't be happening, had to be some sort of ugly, sick joke. "What the bloody hell is going on here? Are you-"

The world grayed out for a moment. When Malcolm came to again, he found himself lying on the floor, his face throbbing from the blow he'd received. Silak was standing over him, the dark eyes appraising him coldly.

"And some training will be needed, as well. What is your name, human?"

"Malcolm Reed." Malcolm raised his chin, refusing to lower his eyes or use the word _S'haile _again. "My name is Malcolm Reed."

For the first time since Malcolm had met him, a thin smile appeared on Silak's face. "That is where you are wrong, _pau'kaluk_. Your name is Krintu now, and you had better remember it." The smile grew even thinner. "Krintu, as in... dog."

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you very much for your kind reviews!

* * *

9

_"Fan-vel uzh?"_

_"Fam nash'asal, kwes namtorer."_

Concentrated on her readings, T'Pol absentmindedly registered the unfamiliar sound of Vulcan spoken on Enterprise's bridge. Ensign Sato's accent, almost perfect in the first place, was now indistinguishable from that of a native Vulcan; an admirable accomplishment on the young Ensign's part. Only few humans mastered the complex phonetics of spoken High Vulcan.

Lieutenant Mevak and Sub-commander Halan, in return, seemed to welcome the fact that there was a human aboard who was able to converse in their native tongue. In the three days they had been aboard, they had kept mostly to themselves, retiring to their quarters when they weren't assisting T'Pol on the bridge. It was only in Ensign Sato's presence that they seemed less guarded, and T'Pol thought that she understood. In her first few weeks on Enterprise, her human crewmates'... intense presence had often overwhelmed her, and she had needed the quiet sanctuary of her quarters as a retreat whenever the emotions around her began to compromise her own control.

She would meditate on this later on. Satisfied that her readings showed the expected results, T'Pol rose from her station and went over to the situation room, where the Captain, Ensign Sato and their two guests were gathered around the console in the center. Captain Archer must have joined the group only now; out of courtesy to their hosts, Mevak and Halan never spoke Vulcan unless they were conversing with Ensign Sato.

The Captain acknowledged her with a nod. "T'Pol."

She knew that he had come to get a report on their proceedings, after spending the morning in conversation with Admirals Gardner and Forrest. T'Pol, Mevak and Halan had been on the bridge since the previous evening, ignoring the two shift changes that had taken place in the meantime. The two young men had been visibly surprised that the humans left their stations every eight hours and returned only after an extended period of resting. On a Vulcan ship, the crew stayed at their posts for no less than fourteen, often twenty Terran hours.

Captain Archer raised his eyebrows at her, obviously expecting her to begin, but T'Pol decided that it would be logical to have Mevak deliver the report. The Lieutenant worked hard, yet so far, he had hardly talked to anyone except to her and Ensign Sato, leaving it to the less reserved Halan to speak for them both.

She inclined her head in his direction. "Lieutenant Mevak, if you would report our findings to the Captain."

Mevak's dark eyes flickered nervously, but he quickly mastered the emotion. "The anomaly re-establishes itself every 4.24 Terran hours, and remains in existence for approximately 26.45 minutes before it again disappears. The shape of the anomaly never changes, and it is logical to assume that it always opens to the selfsame spatial continuum."

Archer nodded. "So it's really a doorway. The question is, where does it lead?"

"We have tried aligning your scanners to probe the immediate surroundings on the other side of the... doorway." It was obvious that Mevak hadn't come across the term before. "Our science officer has done the same action on the _Vuhnaya_ but she was not successful, and neither were we. The interferences inside the anomaly are too strong. We concluded that it is necessary to construct a probe for finding out what is on the other side."

"Can't we modify one of the probes we've got?" the Captain wanted to know.

"It wouldn't work, sir," Ensign Sato replied. "The standard probes aren't designed to withstand this kind of environment. The electromagnetic charges inside the anomaly would make any data transfer impossible and kill the circuitry within a few seconds."

Archer frowned. "Is there any way to neutralize the interferences?"

T'Pol joined the conversation. "Lieutenant Halan suggested we use _bulom-tukh_ to reinforce the outer hull of the probe. A metallic element that is found on one of Vulcan's sister planets," she added for the two humans' benefit. "Ensign Sato is confident she can calibrate the transmission frequency so that the electromagnetic charges won't scatter the signal."

"How long will it take to build the probe?" the Captain asked.

Halan pressed a combination of buttons on the console. A three-dimensional schematic appeared on the display between them, slowly revolving around itself. "I have analyzed both your probes and those we have back on the _Vuhnaya_," he said. "It is my suggestion that we combine your technology with ours in the creation of the new probe. Logic dictates that your signal boosters and our conducting processors will allow the probe to function in spite of the electromagnetic interferences. It will take approximately five days until the probe is ready to be launched."

"Get all the help from Engineering that you need." Archer smiled. "Good work, ladies and gentlemen."

Mevak and Halan didn't seem sure how to react to the praise, and simply inclined their heads in silence. Ensign Sato smiled in response. "We'll have Trip and Malcolm back in no time, sir."

It would have been logical to point out that she was being overly optimistic, but T'Pol refrained from doing so. She knew that humans exchanged such comments not necessarily because they believed they were true, but to express a shared hope and thus strengthen their emotional relationships. The two Vulcan men raised their eyebrows at the Ensign, but refrained from commenting.

_They are wiser than I was_, T'Pol thought. She could have avoided a lot of friction between herself and her crewmates by keeping her silence when things turned to cultural issues.

Archer smiled back at the Ensign. "I hope so, Hoshi."

T'Pol wasn't surprised at the strange undertone in his voice. She knew the Captain was in emotional distress, had been ever since Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker had disappeared. He controlled it fairly well for a human, yet whenever another crewmember expressed their concern for the two men, their feelings would reflect on the Captain's face. _They are his friends_, T'Pol reminded herself. _Commander Tucker is his best friend_. In fact, although she wouldn't use the term herself, the two men were her friends, as well. And she was... concerned. In the privacy of her own mind, she could admit it without shaming anyone. It was another issue she would approach in her meditations.

"I'd ask you to join me for lunch, but I've got a few more calls to make," the Captain said. "I'll be in my ready-room if you need me."

"Aye, sir." T'Pol watched him leave. His tense shoulders suggested that he wasn't looking forward to those calls, and she wondered if he was about to contact the families of the two missing officers. For his sake, she hoped there would be no emotional displays involving unjust blames. Even Vulcan parents had been known to react irrationally when their children were concerned.

She turned back to the rest of the group, about to suggest that they go to the science lab when Ensign Sato spoke up.

"I'm meeting Travis, Ensign Mayweather, for lunch. I'd be happy if you'd like to join us. You too, Sub-commander."

"We appreciate the offer, but we should proceed to the science laboratory," Halan replied.

Ensign Sato wasn't defeated so easily, as T'Pol very well knew. "_Sanoi_," she said. "_Gu-vam kohminu kasu're namtorak nufau yem-tukh eh di'kizh be'hai'la'u'na."_

It was clever to mention human hospitality, T'Pol realized. Mevak and Halan couldn't decline the courtesy of their hosts, and so they had no choice but to join Ensign Sato in the messhall, even if they would have preferred not to go.

_"Yi'muhl_," Halan agreed, and as usual, Mevak followed suit.

_"Haltore'si." _

Hoshi was smiling as she led the small group to the door.

* * *

Malcolm was sitting on the floor on the far side of the cell, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. In the pale starlight coming in from the barred window, he could see the outlines of his cellmates, curled up on the floor and fast asleep. Occasionally, one of them coughed or whimpered in their sleep, and in one of the adjoining cells someone was snoring quietly, stopping every few minutes only to pick up again with a soft keening sound.

Malcolm was tired, but he knew there would be no sleep for him tonight. He wished the Healer had allowed him to stay with Trip. What if the... operation didn't go according to plan? It could happen when a person's metabolism was weakened and wasn't able to handle the anesthesia. He stopped the next thought before it could fully form in his head. There _would_ be anesthesia; he refused to believe otherwise. T'Lys didn't strike him as the kind of person who took pleasure in unnecessary cruelty. Silak, yes, but not the Healer. And she would be the one in charge of the surgery.

Images crowded in his mind, but he quickly pushed them away. Trip was going to live, that was the important thing. He was going to live, and they were going to find a way to get the hell away from here. Before... Malcolm closed his hand into a fist. The way Silak had looked at him, as if he were no more than a... a dog. _Krintu_. He'd rather let them beat him to a bloody pulp before he would accept that name. But, of course, it wouldn't come to that. He would wait until Trip was better, and they would find a way out of here.

_Suddenly the optimist, eh, Reed? Not at all like you._

"Shut up," Malcolm whispered. The coward was back, telling him all the things he already knew; that they couldn't escape when Trip was injured, that the place was guarded like a bloody fortress, that he'd be caught immediately if he tried to steal a weapon... that, even if they escaped, there was no place for them to go. Enterprise was... somewhere else, and how would they leave the planet if they couldn't contact the ship? Unless they stole a ship somewhere. The aircrafts parked outside the building weren't spaceworthy, but a colony of this size had to have space vessels of their own.

_There's just the teeny-weeny problem of breaking out of jail with a seriously injured man in tow, making your way through the city undetected, getting hold of a vessel and leaving orbit without being blasted to smithereens. Doesn't sound too difficult, does it?_

Silencing the voice, Malcolm pulled his knees closer to his chest. He was hungry. He hadn't had anything to eat since the lukewarm chicken curry back on the beach, and the water he'd drunk from the bucket hadn't helped much. His and Trip's food rations had been long gone when he was brought back to the cell. Malcolm hadn't expected any different; it was foolish to believe that anyone would save food in this place.

"Hey."

He glanced up. The voice, an almost inaudible whisper, had come from somewhere to his right, and for a moment he believed that someone had spoken in his sleep. Then he saw a shadow crouched behind the bars that separated his cell from the next. It was Yonsavas, the man who'd gone hungry the previous evening. In the semidarkness, all Malcolm could make out were thick, black brows and hooded eyes.

Slowly, so as not to draw the attention of the guards, he got up. In the corner next to the bars stood the foul-smelling toilet bucket, and Malcolm pretended to take care of his business before he sat down again, facing Yonsavas. He could see the man's haggard face more clearly now, and noticed a scar running down from his nose, parting the soft flesh of the upper lip and curling the man's mouth into a constant snarl.

"Where's your friend?" Yonsavas asked quietly, and Malcolm noticed that the translator under his ear remained silent.

"He's still with the Healer," he answered in an equally low tone. "She said she was going to keep him overnight."

Yonsavas nodded. "What's your name?"

Malcolm didn't hesitate. "Malcolm Reed."

Yonsavas smiled, or rather bared his teeth, the scar distorting the expression. "The guard called you a different name when he brought you back. Krintu."

"That's not my name." Malcolm tried to sound neutral as he said it.

The man surprised him by sticking a hand through the bars. Malcolm took it. The hand was heavy and so callused that the skin had assumed the texture of leather.

"I'm Jackson," said the other man. "The bats call me Yonsavas."

"Bats?" Malcolm asked before he could stop himself.

Jackson stared at him. "Yes, the bats. Pointy-eared bloodsuckers, remember? Can see in the dark, jump you at night? Don't tell me you've never heard that one before."

Malcolm shook his head. He knew he was giving away potential blackmail material if he asked more, but Jackson didn't seem like the type to turn on his fellow prisoners. The hate in his eyes when he mentioned the "bats" testified to that.

"I didn't. In fact, I don't have the faintest idea what's going on here. Is this some sort of... of prison camp? Why are they keeping us here?"

Jackson stared. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Malcolm said. "We didn't even know anyone lived here when we entered orbit. Our scanners didn't pick up any bio signs on the surface."

The man's eyes had grown wider as Malcolm talked. "Your scanners? So you managed to steal a ship?"

"No, we..." Malcolm hesitated. Mentioning Enterprise was a risk, he was well aware of that. "We're explorers. Our ship was waiting in orbit while we did a sweep of the atmosphere. Then, out of the blue our engines went down and we had to make an emergency landing near the coast. We haven't heard from our ship since."

"Explorers?" Jackson said the word as if he'd never come across a stranger term before.

Malcolm nodded. "Starfleet. You've heard of Starfleet?"

Jackson shook his head. "No. I don't know why you're telling me this. There are no human explorers."

Something hard settled in Malcolm's stomach. "What?"

Jackson frowned at him. "What's wrong with you? They give you drugs or something?"

"No. I don't have any idea what's going on here, but-"

"Those clothes you had on before they took you away," Jackson interrupted him. "Where did you get them?"

"They're uniforms." Silak hadn't allowed him to put his overall back on, tossing a bundle of clothes at his feet that must have belonged to another prisoner – loose trousers of an indistinct color, a coarse gray tunic that reached his knees, and a pair of worn sandals. Malcolm wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened to the previous owner.

"Uniforms?" Jackson repeated, obviously not believing him. "They looked like human clothes."

"They are. They're Starfleet uniforms." Malcolm threw all caution to the wind, desperate for a single scrap of information that confirmed that he wasn't going mad, that this wasn't some sort of strange, concussion-induced nightmare. "We're officers on Enterprise, Earth's first warp five vessel. The Vulcans are our allies."

Jackson gave him a long look. "I knew they'd given you something."

"I'm not-" Malcolm noticed that he'd raised his voice, and continued in a lower tone. "I'm not drugged. Are you telling me you've never heard of the Warp Five Project?"

"There's no such thing, buddy." Jackson's voice was laced with pity now. "Humans don't have projects, and they sure as hell don't have starships."

"Back on Earth-"

"Earth belongs to the bats." Jackson eyed him closely. "What the hell is wrong with you, Malcolm?"

Malcolm gave no answer. His mind was swirling, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together, but the resulting picture wouldn't make any sense, no matter how he looked at it. The Vulcans owned Earth... and, as it seemed, not only the planet but its people as well. How could that be? A race that had forsworn violence millennia ago... that prided itself on its high ethical standards. It wasn't possible.

Not in _his_ universe, at least.

Malcolm took a deep breath. "Jackson... what year do we have?"

"The_ Po'tevun S'task _3215," Jackson said. Malcolm ignored the disbelief in his face, listening to the translation of the Vulcan phrase. 'The year after S'task 3215.'

"Who's S'task?" It was obviously a Vulcan name, but not one Malcolm had come across before.

Jackson shrugged. "Their great philosopher. Killed his peace-loving teacher, Surak or something, and led all Vulcans to wealth and glory. They've been the terror of the quadrant ever since."  
"What... what about Earth?"

"What about it?"

"How..."

Jackson shook his head. "How can you not know these things?"

Malcolm only shrugged, and Jackson must have seen something in his face, for he didn't press the subject and continued. "The bats discovered Earth just after the Eugenic Wars. Almost one third of our larger cities were destroyed, half a billion people dead. We were easy game. Some even went willingly to Vulcan, hoping they'd be able to build a new life there." Jackson smiled his snarl-like smile. "The bats just waltzed in and took over. Oh, there was some resistance, but they took care of it easily enough. A few photon bombs dropped on some minor countries, and that was that."

"How long ago was that?"

"About one hundred and fifty of our years."

Malcolm nodded slowly. It was beginning to make sense; in a crazy, terrible way, but he was beginning to get the picture nonetheless. "And ever since we've been...?"

"Slaves, yeah." Jackson's eyes belied his flippant tone. "To the Vulcans, the Andorians, everyone. The bats make quite a fortune, selling us to every planet in the quadrant."

Malcolm noticed that he was gripping the bars between them, and deliberately opened his fingers. His hands were shaking.

"I..." He wasn't sure what to say, and trailed off. A different universe. How the hell was any of this possible?

Jackson seemed to have noticed the trembling of his hands, reached through the bars and squeezed Malcolm's shoulder. "Go get some sleep, buddy. I'm sure it'll all come back to you once the drugs wear off. I've no idea what they've given you, but it's gotta be good. An Earth vessel..." He smiled, a little sadness tingeing the hard expression. "Sleep well, Malcolm. We'll talk again, okay?"

Nodding mutely, he watched as Jackson moved away and found a place on the floor between two of the other sleepers. For a few seconds, Malcolm sat motionless. Then, he pulled the blankets around his shoulders, leaned against the bars and closed his eyes.

Not a nightmare, no. And not the rabbit hole, either.

_Real._

TBC…

Well, you were right with your theory about the parallel universe! Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks for letting me know what you think :)!

Warning: Some violence in this chapter.

* * *

10

Malcolm was awake in an instant when the cell door clanked open. He hadn't slept much, only nodded off a few times into a restless doze. At some point, he had watched the first rays of the rising sun fill the room and paint the floor, the bars and the sleeping prisoners a pale red. Now, bright sunshine streamed in through the window, and all around him, people were slowly coming awake, blinking in confusion when they saw that the door to their cage had been opened.

A guard stepped inside; it was the man who had taken them to T'Lys on the previous evening. Over the Vulcan's shoulder hung a still body wrapped in a blanket.

Malcolm quickly got to his feet. "Trip!"

The guard tossed a few folded blankets on the floor and pointed his whip at Malcolm. "You. Make a bed for him."

"Is he..."

The guard moved his head impatiently. "I said make a bed. Now."

Malcolm picked up the blankets, shook them out and began to arrange them on the floor as a makeshift bed.

"Here." Kin'kur took one of the blankets, spreading it over the others like a top sheet. "He'll be more comfortable that way."

Malcolm nodded at her. "Thank you."

"Are you quite finished?" The guard pushed Kin'kur out of the way. "Help me," he ordered, and Malcolm got up again to assist the Vulcan. Together, they lowered the unconscious man onto the blankets, although the guard's expression left no doubt that he'd rather flung him down, and maybe given him a kick for good measure.

"Spirits, he stinks like a _vralt_." The Vulcan brushed over his uniform, as if to rid himself of the remaining odor. "The Healer said he should drink this," he pulled a flask out of his pocket and threw it to Malcolm, who caught it just in time. "Half of it today, the other half tomorrow. Don't forget."

"I won't," Malcolm said, and when the guard narrowed his eyes at him, reluctantly added, "_S'haile_."

"Make sure that you don't." The guard half turned on his way to the door. "The Healer will come by later to have a look at him. She said he's to be moved as little as possible."

The door slammed shut, startling the last of the sleepers awake. Malcolm knelt down next to Trip on the floor. The engineer looked better than he had the day before; while still quite pale, he was no longer drenched in sweat, and seemed to be asleep rather than unconscious. Malcolm noticed that he was no longer wearing his uniform, but a tunic and loose pants much like his own.

Covered with the blanket, Trip's feet had been hidden from sight so far. Now, Malcolm reached out and carefully folded back the thin fabric, not sure whether to be afraid of what he was going to find underneath.

Trip's left foot was swathed in white bandages, an aircast stabilizing the ankle. The great toe, formerly broken and grotesquely bent out of shape, looked almost normal except for the light splint that had been applied to it. Next to it, only two short, bandaged stumps were left where Trip's second and third toes had been.

Malcolm exhaled slowly. He had known that the two toes were beyond saving; even Phlox couldn't have done much except take them off. Still, it was unsettling, seeing only empty air where part of Trip's body had been. He wondered if anyone had bothered to tell Trip that he was about to lose his injured limbs. Not that it really mattered; even if they had told him, it wouldn't have registered with the engineer, caught in a feverish haze as he had been.

At least T'Lys had kept her promise and saved the great toe. If she hadn't, the amputation might have resulted in a permanent walking impairment.

"How did he get injured?" Kin'kur asked quietly. She was sitting next to him on the floor, hugging her knees. "Were you trying to run away?"

Malcolm shook his head. After talking to Jackson, he knew better than to mention the shuttle crash and simply replied, "It was an accident."

She nodded slowly. "Is that why you're here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were you sold to Silak as a punishment for the accident?"

Malcolm shook his head again. "No, we... it's a long story."

She seemed to accept that he didn't want to talk about it. "I tried to run away," she said softly. "My friend Mathra... she was killed when they came after us."

"I'm sorry." Malcolm didn't know what else to say.

Kin'kur pulled her knees closer to her chest. "I'd rather be dead than go back to my _T'Sai_."

Malcolm was surprised by the sudden venom in her voice. Kin'kur had seemed so frightened to him, too intimidated to hate her Vulcan captors. He was slowly beginning to realize that in this world, every human was afraid, and every human hated, uncompromising and without exception.

"But she's going to take me back," Kin'kur said, avoiding his eyes. "When I was caught, she told them to keep me here for a few days. Said she wanted me to 'reflect on my irrational actions'." She let out a short, humorless laugh. "She did it so I'd be more afraid of her punishment when she comes to get me. But I'm not."

The way she said it, Malcolm knew she wasn't telling the truth. "What..." He trailed off, not sure he really wanted to know, or wanted to see the fear in the woman's eyes when she told him.

Kin'kur shrugged. "I don't know. She won't just whip me; she used to do that all the time. Maybe..."

Her eyes traveled to Trip's bandaged foot. It took Malcolm a moment to understand, and when he did, he suddenly felt sick. He couldn't conceive of a Vulcan doing what Kin'kur had implied her _T'Sai _might do.

The woman gave him a long look. "Don't worry about me," she said, and suddenly her tone was friendly again, almost concerned. "I'll be all right. She's not going to kill me. Now that Mathra is gone, she only has two servant maids left. She can't afford to lose me as well."

Malcolm merely nodded in reply. He knew so little of this world, and the more he learned, the more he was convinced that he couldn't live here, one way or the other. There had to have been some... point of transition, when they had passed into this universe. _If _this was a different universe. _If _he wasn't going crazy. But if he wasn't, if it was true, then there had to be a way to go back.

"Your friend's waking up." Kin'kur's voice and a slight movement on the blanketed bed returned him to the present. Trip's eyelids were twitching, and he was turning his head from side to side, moaning softly.

Malcolm took his shoulder. "Trip. Trip, it's me."

Like before, the translator relayed what he said in Vulcan, and Malcolm paused for a moment before he realized that with his own subdermal translator, Trip would receive the English version after all. Bloody insane way to communicate, he thought, then forgot all about it when Trip opened his eyes.

"...Malcolm?" His voice was little more than a whisper. "Wh... where...?"

"Try not to talk." Malcolm quickly got up and fetched a cup of water from the bucket before he returned to Trip's side. "Here, drink this."

With Kin'kur's help, he supported Trip so he could take a few sips from the cup. Trip swallowed obediently, pulling a face when Malcolm set the cup aside and helped lie him back down.

"Tastes like... shit."

Malcolm grinned a little. "It's all we've got right now, Commander. Except for your medicine, but I'd say we wait a while before you drink it."

Trip's eyes wandered over the bars, the other prisoners and finally back to Malcolm. "Malcolm, what is this? Where are we? What-" He touched his neck, eyes widening as his fingers found the small bump under his ear. "What's that?"

Malcolm almost wished Trip hadn't returned to full consciousness so quickly. He wasn't looking forward to being the bearer of bad news, especially since, under the current circumstances "bad news" was the understatement of the century.

"A subdermal translator. I've got one, too. It translates what you say into Vulcan."

Trip frowned. "Where are we?"

"A Vulcan slave camp. Trip..." He rested a hand on the other man's arm, continuing quietly. "I'm not sure what's going on here, but this is not the world we thought we'd landed on. I'm..."

_I'm not sure it's the same universe_. He bit down on the rest of the sentence. He didn't want to share his theory just yet; Trip wasn't going to believe any of this without seeing it for himself.

"Slave camp?" Trip tried to push himself up on his elbows. "What are you talkin' about?"

"These people... they're here because they ran away from their Vulcan masters."

"Not all," Kin'kur added. "Some are just waiting to be sold, like you."

Malcolm was sure that she hadn't meant to sound callous; to Kin'kur, this was life, and she was simply stating a fact.

Of course, her passing remark had a devastating effect on Trip. _"What?"_

"Trip..." Malcolm tightened his grip on the other man's shoulder. "I'll explain later, all right?" He glanced in Kin'kur's direction, indicating that they would talk when she wasn't listening.

"There's... something else." He paused. There was no gentle way of breaking the news, it seemed. "The Healer... she had a look at your foot while you were unconscious. She... you... well, you had surgery on your toes."

Trip lay very still. "They're off, aren't they?"

Malcolm only nodded.

Trip closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Then, without looking at Malcolm, he slowly began to work himself into a sitting position. His movements weren't quite steady yet, and Malcolm silently helped him, one hand on Trip's back as a support. With fingers that weren't quite trembling, Trip pulled the blanket off his left foot.

"Aw shit." The words were whispered, and an expression of shock as much as anything else. Malcolm could sympathize; the sight of the two bandaged nubs was bad, a hole that gaped like two missing front teeth. Kin'kur had averted her eyes.

"The Healer... she seemed all right to me. I'm sure she did everything she could." Even as he said it, Malcolm knew it was a small consolation. Hesitantly, Trip reached out to touch the bandages, as if he wanted to rely on a sense other than his sight. His hand didn't quite make it, though, hovering nervously for a second or two before he pulled it back again.

"Feels strange, " he said softly. "It's like..." He trailed off.

"Like they're still there?" Malcolm finished the sentence for him.

Trip nodded. "Yeah. They still hurt."

Malcolm picked up the flask the guard had given him. "Here. The Healer said you should drink this. Maybe there's some sort of painkiller in it."

Trip eyed the small bottle suspiciously. "You sure?"

Malcolm nodded. He could understand why Trip wouldn't want to trust in anything the Vulcans had given them, but this, he hoped, would actually help, or T'Lys wouldn't have prescribed it. "Drink it. Half of it today, the other half tomorrow."

Trip unscrewed the flask and raised it to his lips. His face twitched in disgust at the taste, but he didn't put it down until he'd taken several long gulps. Malcolm watched him worriedly. He'd heard of phantom limb pain after an amputation, and also that it could become quite severe. Would a Vulcan take an irrational reaction of the human brain into consideration? He doubted even T'Lys would believe that a limb that was no longer part of the body could still hurt.

Trip screwed the flask shut and handed it back to Malcolm. "Thanks."

Malcolm held out the cup again. "Here. Might kill the taste."

Trip drank a few sips of water, sloshing them around in his mouth before he swallowed. Kin'kur took the cup when he was finished. "I'll get you some more."

As soon as she was gone, Trip grabbed Malcolm's arm. "Malcolm, what the hell's goin' on here? Who are these people?"

"I'm not sure." Malcolm spoke fast, lowering his voice so only Trip would be able to hear him. "There's some sort of settlement out there – the Jasif Colony, Kin'kur called it. That's her." He indicated the woman, who was scooping water out of the bucket, blond hair falling tousled into her face. "I talked to one of the other prisoners, and he told me that..." He paused, not sure how to put Jackson's story into a few words. "He said humans have been enslaved ever since the Eugenic Wars. Earth doesn't belong to us any longer, and-"

He broke off when Kin'kur returned. Smiling, she held the cup out to Trip. "Here you go."

"Thank you." Trip's eyes were still on Malcolm, _"What-the-hell-are-you-talking-about"_ written all over his face. Malcolm wished Kin'kur would leave them alone so he could explain about Jackson, but he wasn't going to tell her so. He had noticed the loneliness in her eyes, the desperate wish for someone to talk to, even if it were two strangers she had never met before.

"So." She sat down next to Malcolm, hugged her knees to her chest and looked at Trip. "Feeling any better?"

Trip nodded slowly, and Malcolm was almost relieved to see a trace of the old Tucker sarcasm on the pale, strained face.

"Yeah," Trip said. "Just great."

* * *

True to her word, T'Lys came to check on Trip in the afternoon, but she wasn't alone. Silak followed her into the cell, two of his guards waiting by the door.

"You. Krintu." He pointed his whip at Malcolm. "Step outside."

"What-"

"Step outside. Now." The Vulcan raised the whip in an unmistakable threat. Malcolm held his eyes for another moment before he went over to the cell door, doing his best to appear calm. He had expected this to happen sooner or later, but, much like the time with the Suliban, inwardly his nerves were blank. And he had a feeling that this was going to be a lot worse than the time he'd been interrogated by Silik and his troops.

"What's goin' on?" Trip asked. Malcolm tensed, and was relieved when he heard the Healer's soft voice.

"Don't speak, Mazhiv. You should be resting."

Malcolm had no time to wonder about the name T'Lys had called Trip. One of Silak's guards grabbed his arm, roughly dragging him out of the cell.

"Move it, _pau'kaluk_!"

"Hey!" Trip pulled away from the Healer. "What are you doin'? Where are you taking him?"

Silak ignored him as if he hadn't spoken at all and waved at the guards to get moving. Malcolm stumbled along, his arm held in the guard's bruising grip. Furtive eyes followed him as he passed the rows of cells, and were quickly lowered if Silak or one of the guards happened to glance at the starer. Jackson, at least, didn't cower as the Vulcans went by. He stood at the very front of his cell, and held Malcolm's eyes until the guards led him out of sight.

As they stepped outside, Malcolm was blinded by the glare of the morning sun. Despite the early hour, the asphalted ground burned under the soles of his thin sandals. The hot air weighed on the yard like a heavy wool blanket.

"Over there," Silak ordered, and the guard resumed his brisk pace, Malcolm in tow. In a corner of the yard, several of the guards were gathered around a wooden post, sitting on the ground or leaning idly against a wall. They grinned when they saw him coming.

Malcolm couldn't take his eyes of the post. A pair of shackles dangled from it, and its sun-bleached wood was stained with dark spots... spots that had taken on a dull brown color, but had doubtlessly been bright red by the time they had first splattered on the wood.

"Take a good look, Krintu," Silak said next to his ear. "There are some questions I am going to ask you, and this-" he pointed at the blood-stained pole – "should convince you that it would be advisable to answer them to the best of your knowledge."

Some of the guards snickered, and Silak threw them a mildly irritated glance before turning back to Malcolm.

"Do you understand, slave?"

The word stirred something in Malcolm, and he forgot about the post for a moment. "I'm not a slave. And my name is Reed."

The guards went silent at that. Silak gave him a long look, his angular face devoid of any emotion.

"Fool," he said eventually. "You are my property now, and your name is as I choose it. Denying it is illogical."

He pushed him towards two of the guards. Malcolm tried to dodge their hands, but they caught him easily enough and manhandled him to the post. His arms were forced over his head, the shackles closed around his wrists. Blisteringly hot from the sun, the metal cuffs burned his skin, but Malcolm bit down hard on his lip, holding back any sound of pain. He couldn't deny that he was afraid, or more precisely, scared shitless, but he'd be damned if he let them see it.

A hand grabbed his hair, forced his head back. Silak was looking at him, one slanted eyebrow arching towards his hairline.

"Now tell me, _Krintu_... what is this?"

At first, Malcolm had no idea what the man was talking about. Then he saw a bundle of blue, dirt-stained fabric in the Vulcan's hand.

"That's my uniform."

Silak's mouth twitched in disbelief. "Your uniform?"

"Yes," Malcolm said.

"And why, do tell, would a _pau'kaluk_ need a uniform? For your military parades, perhaps? Maybe as a dress uniform for your receptions?" The guards chuckled, but Silak didn't even smile. "Well?"

Malcolm thought quickly, desperately. He couldn't tell them about Enterprise - what if his theory _was_ correct and there was some sort of transition point between the two universes? The Vulcans might decide that it was worth looking for; they might even find a way to cross the barrier, and then... he didn't even want to think about it.

"I am not going to ask you again, slave." Silak shoved the uniform in his face, pointing at the Enterprise insignia on the sleeve. "What is this? Why is it written in Terran letters?"

"I... I don't know," Malcolm said. "That was how the Captain wanted it."

"The Captain?"

Malcolm nodded, trying his best to sound both naive and scared. He wasn't sure Silak would buy it, after his previous displays of "illogical" rebellion, but it was the best he could do. "I don't know the species. My friend and I served aboard his vessel..."

"And he wanted you to wear a uniform with Terran insignia?" Silak's tone made it clear that he didn't believe a word of it.

Malcolm nodded again. "Yes. Their species looked a lot like humans, and he said he wanted everyone to know that we're... slaves." The word left a sour taste in his mouth.

Silak's eyebrow climbed higher. "This does not look like the uniform of a steward or maintenance worker, Krintu. You will not tell any more lies. The truth, now." He stepped closer to Malcolm, and suddenly there was emotion in the dark eyes; tightly controlled, yet still very present. "Were you part of a Terran rebel group?"

Malcolm didn't have to ask what would happen to a Terran rebel. "No," he said quickly, and as he hoped, convincingly. "No, we weren't."

Silak stared at him, searching his face. "We will see about that."

He stepped back and nodded at one of the guards. The next thing Malcolm knew, hands grabbed the collar of his tunic and ripped it apart, exposing his back. A knife appeared in his field of vision, slicing through the faded fabric of the sleeves until the tattered garment fell off entirely.

"The pants, too!" shouted one of the guards. Malcolm recognized the short-haired woman who had assisted in their capture. "Let's see his little pink ass!"

To Malcolm's mortification, the hands returned, grabbing his pants, and were about to pull them down when Silak spoke up in a sharp tone.

"Leave them on. We are not here for your entertainment."

The guard let go, quickly stepped back and out of the _Zhel-lan_'s way. Silak ignored him and lifted the whip so Malcolm couldn't help but look at it. It was long and thin, made of twisted leather with a wooden handle. Malcolm found that he couldn't look away, even though he knew that Silak was doing this to intimidate him.

"I can see you haven't experienced this before," Silak said, his eyes flickering to Malcolm's bare back. "Unusual. You must have had a kind _S'haile_... or should I say, overly indulgent."

His eyes caught Malcolm's. "I realize that your kind isn't overburdened with intellectual capacity. The choice is quite simple, however. Tell me the truth, and you will go back to the holding pen unharmed. Continue lying, and you will suffer."

"I wasn't lying. We weren't part of a rebel group."

Silak's eyebrow twitched. "Very well then."

Malcolm closed his eyes. He wasn't going to scream. He'd survived the ocean, and he wasn't going to let these bastards get a glimpse of the coward who had almost drowned him out there.

Pain cut through him as the whip came down for the first time. He grunted, his bound hands clenched tightly into fists as if they would help him keep the scream inside. God, it _hurt_-

"Tell me the truth."

Smack. The force of the blow made him stumble against the pole.

"I... have told you-"

He broke off when another cut sliced through his back, ripping him apart. Don't scream, don't you dare-

"The truth."

"I have told you the truth!" He tried to shout it, but his voice broke and the rest of the sentence came out as a choked gasp. "We served on a space vessel, I don't remember the name! We're not rebels!"

The whip was brought down again, bringing a new sheet of pain, and this time Malcolm couldn't suppress a small whimper. Each new blow reverberated in his body, driving him against the post with the force of a battering ram.

Smack. Now there was blood trickling down his back.

Smack. He couldn't scream, there was no way he would-

"You are a fool, Krintu."

With an effort, Malcolm turned his head. His vision was blurring, and all he could see were Silak's face and the hand with the whip, ready to strike again.

"My name's... Malcolm Reed."

He had wanted it to come out defiantly, but it was only a hoarse whisper, almost a sob. Silak, of course, caught the words all the same, and something in his face changed, became hard and at the same time excited, the expression of a man who has found a challenge worthy of his time.

His voice was deceptively calm as he replied. "It will not be when I'm done with you, _pau'kaluk_."

_You know he's right_. Malcolm pushed the voice in his mind aside, hands balled into fists, steeling himself, he wasn't going to let them do this to him-

Silak raised the whip again. "The truth, now."

Sagged against the post, bleeding and trembling, Malcolm was aware that oblivion wouldn't come for a very long time.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you for reviewing, and a (virtual) sandwich for everyone who reviewed "Ten Days", I'm glad you enjoyed it :)!

* * *

11

T'Pol entered the messhall, her attention focused on the padd in her hands. It was unusual for her to come here during dinner time; she found the noise level to be distracting. Today, though, straying from her routine could not be avoided; she had been working on the probe for almost twenty-four hours, and logic dictated that she take a brief period of rest before she resumed her duties. Mevak and Halan had left Engineering a little earlier, prompted by Sato and Mayweather to get a "bite to eat".

T'Pol went over to the resequencer and placed a cup in the slot. "Mint tea, hot."

Her eyes still on her padd, she picked up part of a conversation at a nearby table.

"...can't believe they're showing _another_ action flick tonight, it's like the guys get to choose all the movies..."

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched. Since Commander Tucker was gone, it seemed that the quality of the films shown on Movie Night had suffered. Not that it was of much importance to her; she had never understood why her crewmates were so passionate about fictional narratives reproduced on a screen. Although she had to admit that some of the less fast-paced films Commander Tucker had shown had proved to be a diverting, if not exactly challenging, stimulation.

"Subcommander?"

T'Pol turned her head. Sato, Mayweather, and the two Vulcan officers were sitting at a table in the corner, and it was Sato who had called out to her.

"Would you like to join us?" Mayweather got up and pulled out a chair.

T'Pol hesitated. She had been looking forward to the peaceful silence of her quarters, and there was also the fact that she hadn't used her nasal numbing agent for more than ten hours. The combination of human food and human body odor was... hard to ignore.

"Please," Sato added. "We've been saving a seat for you."

T'Pol decided to follow her invitation. She didn't want to seem unkind, especially not in front of the two guests.

As she sat down on the chair Mayweather had offered her, she noted the plate standing on front of Halan. The Subcommander had noticed her look.

"I am trying out a human dish Ensign Mayweather suggested I would enjoy," he said. "It is called... spak'eti?"

"Spaghetti," Mayweather corrected with a smile. He also had a plate standing in front of him. "Spaghetti all'arrabiata, to be exact. My favorite. Hope it's not too spicy for you."

"I shall have to try it to find out." Halan picked up his fork, but he seemed unsure how to proceed. "How do I..."

"Oh, sorry. Here..." Mayweather lifted his own fork and began to wrap some of the pasta strings around it. "Just take a little bit, and roll it up until the bite's got the right size."

Halan tried to mimic Mayweather's actions, not entirely successful in his efforts. He managed to roll some of the pasta onto his fork, but they slid off again as he tried to lift them to his mouth.

Mayweather grinned sympathetically. "Eating spaghetti isn't easy even for some humans. Some say only the Italians really get it right."

"Italians?" Halan repeated.

"Italy is a country on Earth," T'Pol explained. "It is where this specialty originated."

Mevak, who was watching Halan's efforts with a lifted eyebrow, spoke up for the first time. "Would it not be more logically to serve the... spaghetti in a shape that is less difficult to handle? It would not have any difference to the taste."

Mayweather laughed. "They wouldn't be spaghetti if they weren't long and stringy. Some people use a knife to cut them, but that's cheating."

Mevak thought about this, his head tilted slightly to one side. "I see," he said then. "It is a matter of honor."

Both Sato and Mayweather laughed. "Not exactly," Sato said. "It's just... something of a tradition."

T'Pol took a sip from her tea, watching as Halan finally managed to transfer some of the wayward pasta into his mouth. The two Vulcan men were a lot less reserved now, and they seemed to enjoy Sato's and Mayweather's company. Perhaps it was their youth; if one compared their Vulcan age to the average human life span, Mevak and Halan were as young as Mayweather and Sato themselves. T'Pol wondered if Captain T'Pyr had deliberately sent two of her youngest specialists. Maybe none of the older officers had been willing to go to the human ship.

Sato's voice interrupted her musings. "I'm going to get myself a sandwich. Can I get you anything, Subcommander? Mevak?"

"No thank you." T'Pol inclined her head.

"You going to try the spaghetti, Mevak?" Mayweather grinned at the Vulcan lieutenant. "Come on, Halan's enjoying them, right?"

"Yes," Halan said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The taste is very pleasant. You should try them, _ashalik_."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the last word, and from the look on Sato's face, the communications officer had caught it as well. Only Mayweather was oblivious, still trying to persuade Mevak to try the spaghetti.

"Come on. They're really good."

"Very well," Mevak gave in. "I shall have a try."

"Great. I'll get you a plate." Sato got up, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Be right back."

T'Pol took another sip from her tea. It was not something she had expected, but in retrospect, some things made more sense now than they had before. It had not been strictly necessary to send two specialists, yet T'Pyr had done so, and the two officers had hardly left each other's side since they had come aboard.

Sato returned and set a steaming plate of pasta down in front of Mevak. "Here you go. Enjoy."

"Thank you." Mevak reached for his fork. "I shall do so."

T'Pol noticed the look on Sato's face and, for once, knew exactly what was going on in the human woman's head. She wasn't surprised when, eventually, Sato failed to contain her curiosity. Humans always did.

"Can I ask you something?"

Halan turned to the communications officer. "By all means."

"You called him _ashalik_..." For some reason, Sato blushed a little. "Are you two a couple?"

"We are _t'hyla_," Halan replied. "In human terms, I assume that makes us a... couple?"

He directed his question at T'Pol.

"Indeed," she said. "Humans do not employ the concept of _t'hyla_, but they have relationships that work in a similar way."

Mayweather seemed dumbstruck. "Oh. I didn't know..." He trailed off. "So, you're married, or...?"

"We aren't bonded yet," Halan said. T'Pol had known, of course; the two men were far too young to have experienced their first _pon farr_. It was not unusual for _t'hyla_ to live together even before their first Time came.

"I thought Vulcan marriages were prearranged in childhood?" Sato ventured, and immediately raised her hands as if to hold off the answer. "Sorry if I'm prying."

"Not at all," Mevak answered. "Not all Vulcan parents follow the tradition of... arranging marriages. Some consider it..." He frowned. "_Vesh-nartauk_."

"Outdated," Sato supplied the English word.

"Yes, outdated. They allow their children to choose their own mates for life."

"Oh." Mayweather hesitated. "This _t'hyla_... is it only for, I mean..." He seemed embarrassed, and T'Pol allowed herself a moment of amusement, even though she wasn't entirely comfortable with discussing such personal matters in public. Humans, for all their permissiveness, could be surprisingly prudish.

"It can occur in a prearranged marriage, although most _t'hyla_ choose each other," Halan said, obviously trying to be helpful.

T'Pol took pity on the ensign. "I believe Ensign Mayweather wants to know whether only same-sex couples refer to each other as _t'hyla_."

The two Vulcan officers were visibly surprised. "No," Halan said. "It has nothing to do with the gender of the participants. It is... a matter of the mind. _Kator-dva'n_."

"Spiritual," Sato said.

"Yes. _T'hyla_ discover a spiritual closeness when they choose each other. The physical bonding is only a logical consequence."

Sato smiled. "Soulmates."

Halan considered. "An appropriate translation," he said then. "I take it humans have _t'hyla_... soulmates, too?"

Sato nodded. "Yes. We do."

"So," Mayweather said after a small pause, and grinned at Mevak. "Enjoying your spaghetti?"

T'Pol found herself sharing a look with Ensign Sato, and surprised herself by allowing a very small smile to touch her lips, only for the split of a second. Sometimes, she thought, even a human and a Vulcan woman could agree that men would be men, as self-evident a statement as it seemed.

She returned her attention to her padd. The Captain would be pleased to learn that the probe was almost completed.

* * *

"Your back is healing well, Krintu. I do not believe that I will need to use the derm restorer again."

Malcolm, sitting on the floor of the cell, his new tunic pushed up to his shoulders, didn't react. Had it been Silak or any of the guards, his lack of response would have earned him a blow to the head, but T'Lys merely sighed and got to her feet.

"We are done here."

Malcolm shrugged down the tunic, still not looking at the Healer. It was three days ago that he had been dragged back to his cell, bleeding and unconscious, and he hadn't been able to look at any of them ever since. His back _was_ healing; T'Lys had made sure of that. A few doses of therapeutic radiation from her derm restorer, and all that was left of the bloody mess was a pattern of red, healing scars. They didn't even hurt that much anymore. But Malcolm found he still couldn't look at her.

He stayed where he was after she'd left, doing his best to avoid Trip's eyes. Everyone else, he knew, would carefully avoid looking at him; after his interrogation by Silak, most of their cellmates seemed to have decided that he wasn't worth the risk and would no longer acknowledge his presence, let alone talk to him. _Marked man_. He'd become one in more ways than one. Silak had ordered that, like Jackson, he was to receive only one ration of food a day, and was to be taken out for another round of questioning as soon as his wounds were healed. The prospect filled him with mind-numbing dread - which, of course, was Silak's intention. The Vulcan wanted him isolated, hungry, desperate and afraid; ideal conditions for breaking a prisoner, as Malcolm very well knew. And it was working. He supposed that he would be able to go through another one or two sessions at the whipping post without letting slip about Enterprise, but he knew he couldn't hold out forever. And he would not be able to stand by and watch as they tortured Trip. That was the one thing Malcolm knew Silak was keeping up his sleeve, to use against him when all other methods had failed. He had said as much, shortly before Malcolm passed out with pain and exhaustion. "_Do not believe I won't bring your friend out here, if you do not cooperate. It is your choice, Krintu."_

His choice. Another interrogation tactic, of course - the interrogator tried to make the prisoner feel responsible, instill the notion that he was free to choose his fate.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned his head. Trip was leaning against the nearby wall, his injured foot propped up on a blanket. Thanks to T'Lys and her medications, he was no longer wracked by fever and pain these days, and Malcolm dreaded the moment when Silak would notice how much the engineer's condition had improved. As long as Trip had appeared to be at death's door, the Vulcan hadn't been able to use him to force Malcolm's cooperation. Now, however...

"Malcolm, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm replied repressively. He recognized the question for what it was, a prelude to conversation, but he had no wish to talk.

"Right," Trip said, ignoring the silent hint. "Look, Mal, I'm sure this isn't it. You know that, don't you?"

Malcolm knew very well that Trip was referring to Enterprise and Captain Archer, names they had agreed not to mention even when none of the guards were in sight. Kin'kur wouldn't have betrayed them, but she was gone, back with her _T'Sai_, and Malcolm wasn't so sure about the rest of their cellmates. Some of them did give the impression as if they would do pretty much anything in exchange for a meal and a few warm blankets.

"Yes," he said when it was obvious that Trip was waiting for an answer. "I know that. But..."

He left the sentence unfinished. Trip knew as well as he did just how many "buts" there were; there was no need to spell them out for him.

One of their cellmates, an old man who hardly left his corner under the window all day long, glared at Trip. "Do you have to use human names all the time? You'll get us all whipped."

From the look on Trip's face, he was about to tell the man to mind his own business. Before he could say the words, though, something in his expression changed, and he merely nodded once.

"Sorry. I'll try to remember."

"Make sure that you do," the man grumbled before he returned to his contemplation of the empty space in front of him. Trip said nothing, and Malcolm thought he understood. He might not have three days ago, but things had changed since then.

There was a clank as the entrance door was opened, followed by the sound of voices. Recognizing Silak, Malcolm tensed. Had the _Zhel-lan_ decided that it was time for the next interrogation session? And if he had, he would see that Trip was no longer weak and feverish. He would have him taken outside.

Malcolm pushed one of the blankets towards Trip. "Here, lie down. And pull that over your face."

Trip frowned. "Why?"

"Quick, do as I say!"

Trip stared at him for a long moment, and Malcolm wished the engineer didn't know him as well as he did. It was difficult to hide any of his thoughts and intentions from the other man.

"No."

"Trip-"

The engineer shook his head. "I'm not sendin' you out there again."

Malcolm remembered how angry Trip had been when he had first come to after Silak had whipped him unconscious. Face white, the engineer had stared at the guards with an expression as if he were visualizing their intestines dripping from the walls of the room. Malcolm suspected that if push came to shove, friendly, good-natured Trip Tucker could be driven to murder, and he had no intentions of letting the man try anything stupid. When Silak came to take him outside, he needed Trip well hidden under the blanket and quiet.

"Trip, listen-"

Trip shook his head. "I'm not playin' sick, Malcolm. You could deal with it, and so can I."

Malcolm opened his mouth, about to give Trip a piece of his mind when he saw that the man with Silak wasn't one of the guards. Stocky, broad-shouldered, pot-bellied and clad in embroidered robes that were flecked with food stains, the man looked like the caricature of a Vulcan dignitary. Slowly, he walked down the aisle between the holding areas, followed by Silak who pointed at prisoners inside the cells as if they were cattle on display – which, Malcolm thought, was essentially true.

"This one," the fat Vulcan said after a few dismissive waves, and Silak's guards hurried to drag the human in question out of his cell. The man kept his eyes downcast and didn't resist as the Vulcan felt his arms and turned his head from side to side.

"He's well trained, Aylak," Silak said. "He hasn't given us any trouble since he came here."

"Except that he's here because he ran away in the first place." The man called Aylak raised a derisive eyebrow. "I come here instead of going to the traders because their prices are outrageous. _Not_ because of the quality of your merchandise."

Silak wasn't deterred. "Or this one. He can work hard."

Malcolm followed Silak's eyes, his dismay growing when he saw who the Vulcan was pointing at. Unlike his cellmates, Jackson stood with his chin raised, refusing to cower under Silak's gaze.

Aylak grunted non-committally, and the guards took it as a cue to open the door to Jackson's cell. Jackson let himself be pulled outside, but when Aylak reached out to feel his arm muscles, he twisted away and spat at the Vulcan.

"Fuck you."

Aylak's mask of condescending indifference slipped, revealing genuine surprise. "What? What did he say?"

Silak's face hardened. "Do not pay him any mind. He is little more than an animal. They all are." The words were followed by a hard blow that sent the young man sprawling on the floor. As the guards hauled him back to his feet, there was blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

Aylak took one of his arms and squeezed it. "He is strong, though. I'll take him." He turned to Silak, his round face smoothing into the studied arrogance of before. "Surely you won't demand too much for a barely trained beast."

"Eight hundred _lit_ for each of them," Silak replied. "The usual."

Aylak let go of Jackson's arm as if he had suddenly become aware of a disgusting smell. "You cannot be serious, Silak."

"I most certainly am. It is a cheap price for two healthy young males, as you well know."

Aylak's mouth twitched angrily. "They're not trained at all."

"They do not have to be trained much to do factory work, do they?"

"Six hundred each," Aylak said. "And it will still be too much."

"I am afraid you will have to visit the traders in town then, Aylak. I cannot afford to give away my slaves for free."

Aylak sighed angrily. "At least give me a third one cheap if you are set on ruining me today."

Silak raised an eyebrow. "Why should I?"

This time, Aylak managed to sound smug. "Good business relations should be preserved, do you not agree?"

"Very well then." Silak turned around, waving a casual hand. "That one. Not in perfect health, but I believe he will suffice."

It took a moment before Malcolm understood that he was talking about Trip.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you for reviewing!

* * *

For a moment, Malcolm sat perfectly still. Then he got to his feet, ignoring the startled looks from his cellmates. "No. Over my dead body."

"Malcolm, sit down!" Trip's voice had taken on a sharp command tone, and Malcolm would have deferred to it in an instant - under normal circumstances. But there were hardly any circumstances less deserving of the term "normal".

Silak stared at him. "You realize that you will suffer even worse for this, Krintu?"

Malcolm shook with anger. "That's not my name. And you're not going to-"

"Can't you control that _pau'kaluk_, Silak?" Aylak sounded weary. "This is getting ridiculous. I shouldn't pay you more than one hundred _lit _for any of these animals."

Silak waved at the guards. "The sand-haired one. Bring him."

"Malcolm."

Something in Trip's tone caught Malcolm's attention, and he turned to see the engineer looking at him with a strange, almost hard expression on his face. "We're gonna get outta here, okay? Don't forget."

Malcolm had no time to reply. The guards came in, and before Malcolm could even step in front of Trip, he found himself lying on the floor, his jaw throbbing from the punch he had received. Through a blur, he watched as the guards grabbed Trip and pulled him to his feet. As his weight came to rest on his injured foot, Trip winced, but he didn't cry out. Half carrying him, half dragging him along, the guard manhandled him out of the cell and pushed him to stand before Aylak.

The Vulcan's eyes traveled over Trip's unshaven face and ragged clothes before they came to rest on the bandaged foot. "What's that?"

"His ankle was broken," Silak replied. "The Healer has treated him with the osteo-restorer. It should not be a problem."

Aylak seemed less than convinced. "He's missing part of his foot."

"Only two toes. The injury will heal in due time."

"How convenient." Aylak grabbed one of Trip's arms, running his thumb over the cloth-covered biceps. Malcolm saw Trip tense, and knew that they shared the urge to smash a fist into the Vulcan's face. "Well, he will have to do, won't he?"

Silak chose to ignore the annoyed undertone. "Indeed. He is yours for five hundred and fifty _lit_."

"Four hundred."

"Five hundred and twenty-five."

"Four hundred and fifty."

"I will not take less than five hundred, Aylak. He will be worth twice as much once his foot has healed."

Aylak sighed. "Five hundred it is, then. I do not know why I allow you to rob me every time I come here, _Zhel-lan_."

Malcolm got to his feet, absentmindedly wiping the blood off his split lip. Outside the cell, the guards were fitting restraints on the wrists of Aylak's new slaves, cuffing their hands behind their backs. Malcolm stepped close to the bars, gripping them so Trip wouldn't see the shaking of his hands. Of course they would get out of here. It wouldn't be long until he saw Trip again, most likely surrounded by a rescue party from Enterprise. In a few months - weeks - they'd remember his being "sold" over a cold beer, smirking at the memory. This couldn't be happening for real. Things like that didn't happen for real, not anymore.

"See you," Malcolm mouthed. He was careful not to make a sound so the translator wouldn't pick up the words. "See you soon, okay?"

Trip nodded, smiling very faintly. Then he turned away, and didn't look back as he slowly limped after Aylak to the exit. Malcolm remained standing where he was until his arms began to ache from gripping the bars so hard.

Of course they would.

* * *

Sitting in a corner of his cell, Malcolm didn't get up even as the guards came in with the food cart. He knew he would be refused; he had received his meager share this morning, and thanks to Silak, it was all he would be given for the day. The hunger had ached like a sore on the first day and cut like a knife on the second day of his enforced fast, but today, it seemed to have abated a bit. Maybe his body was getting used to the idea of having to survive on half a cup of porridge-like slob a day. Or maybe he just couldn't bring himself to focus on his empty stomach any longer. Trip, of course, would have offered to share with him; he _had_ shared with him, refusing to eat all of his rations until Malcolm gave in and had a few bites to get the engineer off his back. But Trip was gone. Sold.

Malcolm hugged his knees to his chest, watching his fellow prisoners as they crowded at the front of the cell and stretched out their hands even before the guards had arrived with the cart. For one brief, uncontrolled moment, he hated them for it. They should be hurling the disgusting swill back into the Vulcans' faces, instead of accepting the bowls like grateful dogs who would gobble up anything that was thrown into their pen.

He rested his chin on his knees. He didn't understand it, no matter how he looked at it. Why had Silak suddenly decided to sell Trip, after threatening Malcolm that he would use the engineer to force a confession about the Terran rebel group? It wasn't logical, and Malcolm had found that Silak, for all his indifference and cruelty, wasn't a stranger to Vulcan logic. It didn't make any sense.

He remembered that Silak had mentioned factory work when talking to Aylak. That could mean a lot of things. Malcolm had seen quite a number of factory buildings downtown, that time he had gotten a short glimpse of the colony outside. Was Silak aware that Trip was in no way up to physical labor, let alone many hours of it? Malcolm suspected so. But why would he sell Trip to man who would work him to death? Even from a strictly logical point of view, it was a waste of resources to do so.

Maybe he should have just told him about Enterprise. Offered the information in exchange for Trip. If he had only stopped to think for a single second, instead of losing control like a bloody fool.

_Right. And Silak would have believed you, of course. He would have bought the story of a parallel universe, a rift in time and space or whatever this is in an instant._

And if Malcolm had invented something about a rebel group, he and Trip would have been killed.

He raised his head when the cell door was opened. The guards had arrived with the food, and over the noise of the crowd, Malcolm could hear their short, barked orders and the occasional crack of a whip. The smell of the food drifted over to where he sat, and while it wasn't very appetizing, it stirred the ache in his empty stomach back to life. He closed his eyes, remembering his earlier thoughts about dogs and food.

_Hypocrite. _Had there been the slightest chance of getting some of the food, he would have been right there with the crowd, panting for a bowl and all but drooling with greed. Maybe Silak had picked the right name for him, after all.

"Krintu."

Malcolm opened his eyes again. Silak was standing outside the cell, flanked by two of his guards.

"Get up," the Vulcan ordered. Malcolm knew that there was little use in disobeying. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and had to grab the wall for balance when a sudden dizzy spell washed over him. Of course Silak would take him outside for questioning now, when he had just been made painfully aware of the hunger gnawing away at his intestines. For a Vulcan, the man seemed to have an astute understanding of human psychology.

Malcolm didn't resist as the guards grabbed his arms and began to lead him down the aisle between the holding pens. His head swam, and he found that he could hardly muster the energy to be afraid of what was going to happen. _Walking the plank_, he thought, remembering the pirate stories he had read as a boy. _Only that there are no sharks waiting for me, no Captain, sir. It's bats_. _Pointy-eared bloodsuckers_. The thought was suddenly funny, and he caught himself just before a giggle escaped. He must be going mad... or maybe it was the hunger doing strange things to his brain.

The light outside was even brighter than last time. Tiny, red spots flecked his vision, dancing at the periphery of his eyes until he blinked and the world slid into focus again, transforming into the sun-flooded yard. The iron gate was open, allowing a view of the city outside; houses, mansions, factory buildings. Somewhere out there was Trip. Somewhere out there with the bats. He almost laughed at that. He must really be going mad.

At a nod from Silak, the guards dragged him to the post in the corner. Several of their colleagues had already gathered there, grinning, obviously looking forward to the entertainment. Malcolm watched them out of bleary eyes. Did Vulcans bet?

_Five _lit_ that he passes out after half an hour. You think he's going to scream this time? Ten _lit_ that he does._

Finally they let go of his arms and he stood, swaying. One of the guards called something, but he didn't catch the words. Maybe they were really making bets.

_Fifteen _lit_ that he'll talk, now that his little friend is gone._

They might even win that one.

"Krintu."

Malcolm raised his head. Silak was standing in front of him, staring at him, and for the first time since he had been brought out here, Malcolm felt a stab of real fear.

A hand grabbed his jaw, stopped him from looking away. "You do not look well, Krintu. Are you missing your _t'hyla_ already?"

_Fucking bastard_. Somewhere, Malcolm found the strength to wrench his face out of the Vulcan's grip.

Silak seemed to have expected his reaction. "Yes, I can see that you are." He pulled out his whip and Malcolm tensed, but the Vulcan didn't move to strike him. Instead, he began to walk around Malcolm, talking as if they were having a casual conversation between friends. "I'm sure you have wondered where your friend is now. Wondered if he will be able to cope with the work, injured as he is."

The Vulcan came to stand in front of Malcolm again. Lifting the whip, he pushed it under Malcolm's chin so that Malcolm had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Aylak is the administrator of an armaments factory. Do you know what that is, Krintu?"

Malcolm said nothing.

"The factory produces weapons, and Aylak comes here because he needs strong, healthy workers. Our weapon industry cannot afford to take your delicate human constitution into consideration. The slaves work fourteen hours at the assembly lines every day, every one of them, until they die. Then, Aylak comes here to buy new ones. It is the logical approach."

Malcolm stood very still. If Silak was telling the truth, he had signed Trip's death warrant by selling him to Aylak. In his weakened state, the engineer wouldn't last two months under such conditions.

Silak continued. "I believe you are fairly intelligent for a _pau'kaluk_, Krintu. Your friend won't survive in Aylak's factory. I assume you are willing to do everything to save him?"

Malcolm stared at the cool, indifferent face. The Vulcan wasn't even mocking him; he was simply stating facts, laying out the conditions for the offer that was about to follow.

"Well?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes," he said quietly. "I am."

"Yes what?"

"Yes... _S'haile_."

"Good." Silak sounded satisfied. "I am willing to have your friend retrieved from the factory today. In exchange, you will tell me everything about the Terran rebel group."

Malcolm would have told him everything, whatever the Vulcan wanted to hear, but he knew that it would lead to nothing. If he invented a rebel group, he and Trip would be executed, or, more likely, he would be killed and Trip would be left to die a slow death in Aylak's gulag factory. He wasn't fool enough to believe that Silak would even bother to buy Trip back. And if he told the truth – which Silak wouldn't believe - Trip would die anyway.

"Do you understand, Krintu?"

Malcolm met the Vulcan's dark eyes. "We weren't part of a rebel group," he said, forcing himself to sound calm. "There's nothing I can tell you."

Silak raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you aren't as intelligent as I thought. You do realize that your friend will die if you continue lying?"

"I'm not lying!" Malcolm hadn't intended to shout. The words seemed to come out of his mouth on their own, as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. "We... we stole a ship! We were trying to escape... but we never met any Terran rebels!"

The Vulcan grabbed him by collar of his tunic, sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "Then why do you have uniforms with Terran insignia? Why do you call each other by human names? You're lying!"

Malcolm only stared at him. There was nothing he could say to this; nothing that wouldn't make things even worse.

"Very well." Silak let go of him. "It does not matter. I will find out the truth, and I do not care if I kill you in the process. But you could have saved your friend. Remember that." He signaled to the guards. Two of them stepped forward and grabbed Malcolm, pulling off his tunic. He was pushed towards the post, his hands shackled over his head. This time, Silak didn't intervene, and the onlookers jeered as Malcolm's pants and undergarment were pulled down as well.

"Why don't we take him to the bunkhouse later on?" one of them called. ""Interrogate" him some more."

Laughter followed.

"You may do as you please when I'm done with him," Silak said, his voice hard and untouched by the guards' amusement. "But I doubt he will be alive by then. I will not release him until he tells the truth."

Malcolm pressed his face against the wooden post. Part of him, and maybe it wasn't even the coward, wanted Silak to make true on his threat. If he had to die, he wanted to go without paying a visit to the bunkhouse first. He only wished he could have done something to help Trip.

He heard Silak move into position behind him, and closed his eyes. Last time, he had seen his blood fly from the end of the whip and spatter on the ground. This time, all he wanted to see was the darkness behind his eyelids.

The first lash took his breath away. The pain was worse, a lot worse than the first time, maybe because of the fresh scars on his back.

Smack. Was this really how he was going to die, chained to this post and whipped like... like a dog? The thought filled him with a sudden hatred.

Smack. He bit down on his tongue to hold the scream inside. His arms were beginning to tremble. So this was really it-

"The truth, Krintu. Or you will suffer a lot more before-"

"What exactly is going on here, _Zhel-lan_?"

A sharp, male voice had spoken, his words followed by a sudden silence. The guards' laughter and taunts had broken off as if they had been silenced by a single look. Trembling with pain, Malcolm turned his head. He wanted to see who would cut Silak off in mid-sentence like that.

The man looked like the Vulcans Malcolm remembered from Starfleet Headquarters. Tall, his hair flecked with gray, his face stern and fine-featured, he could have been one of Soval's aides. Even his clothing – heavy, ornamented robes – reminded Malcolm of a Vulcan dignitary.

"_Ekhartausu _Sahriv," Silak said, greeting the man. Malcolm listened to the translation of the Vulcan word, but it didn't make much sense to him. House Intendant Sahriv. Maybe he really was some sort of dignitary.

The tall Vulcan glanced at him with no discernible emotion before he turned back to Silak. "Why is this man being punished?"

Silak didn't seem very pleased, but he obviously wasn't in the position to refuse an answer. "I have reason to believe that he was part of a Terran rebel group."

"Ah." The man called Sahriv walked closer, his mouth thinning slightly as he became aware of the dried blood on the post and the ground. "Another one, if I may say so. Of course, it is only logical that you would pursue your suspicions and torture these wretched creatures until they confess to about anything you want to hear. Is it not, _Zhel-lan_?"

"_Osu_, I have brought you a rebel-"

"Indeed." Sahriv eyed him contemptuously. "One in ten years, Silak. And how many have you lost since, because you insist on forcing "confessions" out of them?"

Silak's eyes had grown dark with anger. "He was wearing a uniform with Terran insignia when we caught him. It must be some sort of secret organization-"

"But of course." Sahriv had come to stand next to the post. He looked at Malcolm like a trader might inspect a horse on offer, reached out and ran a hand over Malcolm's bare shoulder. Tied up as he was, Malcolm couldn't pull back from the touch. "It is a pity that you chose this one for your "investigations". He would be worth quite a sum if you didn't insist on ruining his appearance."

"Is there anything I can do for you, _Osu_?" The dislike in Silak's voice was audible, but Sahriv didn't seem to notice or care.

"In fact, there is. Lady T'Sia requested that I replace a servant we lost the week before last, and I was told you had new slaves on offer. Of course, I wasn't aware that you had new information about the Terran underground as well."

Silak ignored the sarcasm. "Surely Lady T'Sia did not have one of my slaves in mind when she gave you the order? They are hardly fit to serve the noble House of Sreman."

"I could not agree more." Sahriv looked around, his lips curling in badly concealed disgust. "Yet Lady T'Var insisted that I come to you. She seems to think that the fewer humans remain in your care, the better."

"Is that so." Silak didn't sound as if the news particularly disturbed him. "Shall we go inside so you can examine our current stock?"

"I would rather you had them brought outside. The odor in there..."

"Of course." Silak called out to the guards, who slowly got to their feet. They seemed disappointed that the show had come to an end so soon.

"Move!" Silak snapped at them. Malcolm watched as they trudged towards the brick building. He knew he had merely been given a respite.

"In fact, Silak..."

Malcolm turned his head. Sahriv was staring at him again, his slanted eyebrows pulled into a frown.

"Yes, _Osu_?" Silak asked.

Sahriv inclined his head, as if he had come to a decision. "Untie your rebel here."

"_Osu_, you cannot seriously-"

"I can do as I wish, can I not, _Zhel-lan_?" Sahriv's voice had taken on a sharp tone. "Release him this instant."

This time, Silak obeyed. As soon as his hands were free, Malcolm bent down and pulled up his pants. It stung as if something hot and acrid were trickling down his back, and he swayed a little as he straightened up again. His head suddenly felt very light.

A hand gripped his arm. "Open your mouth," Sahriv ordered. Malcolm was too dumbfounded to do anything but stare at him.

The House Intendant looked at Silak. "He does speak Vulcan, doesn't he?"

"We had him fitted with a subdermal translator. He is just being difficult, as usual. I would advise against having him serve the Noble Family. He does not have any training at all."

Sahriv raised an eyebrow at Silak. "I believe that decision is mine to make. And I am not surprised he doesn't respond to your... training." He looked back at Malcolm. "Open your mouth."

Malcolm knew he would do anything to get away from here. Get away, and find a way to help Trip, even if it meant playing along in their humiliating sales talk. Slowly he opened his mouth.

"Good teeth," Sahriv said after a short examination. "In fact, this one looks better than most of your runaways, Silak. He should be acceptable to the family once his face has healed. I trust he is healthy?"

"_Osu_..." Silak seemed to struggle for a calm tone. "I really think we should try to find out where he came from. The potential danger..."

"Be assured, Silak, if he tries to murder his masters or take over the colony, we will call for your assistance. I doubt our guards can handle a threat such as him on their own."

Malcolm had never seen a Vulcan blush, but there was definitely a green hue on Silak's bearded cheeks. "_Osu_, I am merely saying..."

"Yes, yes. I remember asking you whether this slave is in good health?"

Silak's tone was flat, as if he knew that any of his warnings would only meet with more ridicule. "He is in good condition."

"You mean he will be, after he has recovered from your... investigations. How much do you want for him?"

"Nine hundred _lit_."

Unlike Aylak, Sahriv didn't bargain. Casually, he pulled out a chip and handed it to Silak. "Your money will be transferred to your account."

Silak took it with obvious reluctance. "_Osu_," he said stiffly, then turned around to the guards who were herding a small group of prisoners down the steps at the entrance, bringing the slaves Sahriv had requested to see.

"Take them back inside!" He marched towards the prisoners and pulled out his whip, beating them as he drove them back up the stairs. "Move it, there, _nirak'u_!"

"Kick the sand if you cannot kick the _chorka_," Sahriv murmured, and Malcolm thought he saw a thin, scornful smile playing about the Vulcan's lips. The House Intendant turned to him.

"What is your name?"

Malcolm hesitated.

Sahriv raised an eyebrow at him. "Well? Or do you not have one?"

"My name's Krintu," Malcolm answered quietly. He had sworn to himself he would never use that name, but that had been before they had taken Trip away.

"Ah. Well, get yourself dressed, Krintu. The... atmosphere of this place may be refreshing for some, but as for me, I would rather not remain here any longer than absolutely necessary."

Malcolm could only agree.

TBC…

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

13

"One more time, Krintu. Just to be sure. "

"Yumur..."

"Come on, let's hear it. Rule number one?"

Malcolm sighed. Yumur was a diminutive, dark-skinned woman of about forty, and she ruled her attendance of kitchen staff and servers like Nelson had ruled the Victory, seeing to it that every man did his duty, whether he wanted to or not. As a new-comer, the first thing Malcolm had learned was that there was no arguing with the First Cook.

"Rule number one: No speaking in the presence of the Noble Family."

Yumur nodded. "Unless?"

"Unless I am addressed, in which case I answer "Yes, _S'haile_" and "Yes, _T'Sai"_."

"Rule number two?"

"No display of emotion in the presence of the Noble Family, and no indication that I'm aware of anything that's being said."

"Including comments on your own person." Yumur narrowed her eyes at him. "If I hear you've so much as smiled in there, you can forget about your evening meal. Is that clear?"

"Yes, First Cook."

"Number three?"

"No touching the food, the plates or the cutlery with my bare hands. I'm to wear these all the time." He held up his gloved hands, and Yumur nodded in acknowledgment.

"That's right. If you get them dirty, get yourself a fresh pair from the cupboard." She pointed at one of the storage compartments that lined the kitchen walls. "Never use a pair of gloves that's not perfectly clean, even if there's only a small stain on it. They will notice, and, more importantly, _I_ will notice. Understood?"

Malcolm nodded. He had only been in this house for three days, but he had already noticed that the food was prepared and served with an almost obsessive attention to hygiene. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. And rule number four?"

"I'm to stay in the background and pay attention to every person at the table. If someone requires my services, I'm to attend them immediately and be as quick and unobtrusive as possible."

"How do you serve beverages?"

"From the left."

"And food?"

"From the left as well."

"And how do you take away empty plates?"

Malcolm paused, noticing the way she was watching him out of the corners of her eyes. "I don't take them away. That's the clearers' job."

The ghost of a smile crinkled her eyes. "Exactly. As a server, you don't touch any dirty dishes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Satisfied, Yumur nodded at the elderly man who had been waiting patiently in the background. "Hay'ak will keep an eye on you. Let him serve the Ladies and their husbands while you attend the younger members of the Family. Just do what he's doing."

"Yes, ma'am." Malcolm bit back another sigh. Compared to this, the stiff family dinners he remembered from his childhood seemed downright lively. The Noble Family insisted on strict protocol, and not only concerning mealtimes; there was endless list of things to do and not to do, and for the human servants it was mostly the latter kind.

"Krintu!"

"I'm coming." Malcolm took a tray from the counter and followed the rest of the servers, carefully keeping balance so none of the _plomeek_ broth would spill. He didn't want to risk another slip. The Noble Family ate twice a day; as a servant, it depended on his conduct and on the mood of the person in charge if there was a bowl of leftovers waiting for him after work. On the previous day, Malcolm had gone to bed hungry after he had inadvertently touched a _fori_ tuber with his bare hand while paring vegetables. He didn't want to find out what would happen if he offended a member of the Family on his first day as a server.

Heading down the wide, tapestry-hung corridor that led to the Meal Hall, Malcolm caught a glimpse of himself in one of the wall mirrors. He looked strange, clad in a house servant's austere black tunic and pants; almost like a person from another century. It wasn't hard to imagine a Roman slave looking like this on his way to the atrium, where the patrician family lounged on couches and waited for their mid-day meal. Maybe, through an ironic twist of fate, one of his ancestors had found himself in a similar situation. The thought brought a dry smile to his lips, and he quickly smothered it before anyone saw that he had broken rule number two.

They had arrived at the carved double door of the Meal Hall, and Hay'ak turned around to look at his three fellow servers. "Yonakh, you'll assist me with the Ladies. Kesek, show Krintu where to start, will you?"

The stocky, blond man next to Malcolm nodded. "Sure."

Hay'ak touched a panel, and the double doors swung open noiselessly. It was the first time that Malcolm saw the Meal Hall, and he was impressed in spite of himself. The room was as spacious as the messhall back on Enterprise, its walls decorated with gobelins and ancient-looking weapons. A large panoramic window overlooked the gardens that surrounded the noble House of Sreman. On a waist-high platform in the middle of the room stood a long, wooden table, its design striking Malcolm as vaguely Japanese. The Family was seated on small pillows alongside the table, about twenty persons on the whole. None of them turned their heads as the servers came in, not even the children who were sitting at the far end. They perched on their pillows cross-legged and stiff-backed, their heavy, embroidered robes discouraging any movement that went beyond a small nod. Talking in quiet, dignified tones among themselves, the Vulcans seemed to be attending a ceremonial gathering rather than waiting for dinner.

Kesek touched Malcolm's arm with his elbow, mouthing something in Vulcan which Malcolm guessed meant "this way". He followed the other man to the children's end of the table, and at a nod from Kesek took position on the left-hand side. Hay'ak and Yonakh were waiting at the other end, standing stiffly and motionless, obviously waiting for some sort of signal. Eventually, the white-haired lady at the head of the table struck a small gong. In an instant, the rest of the Family ceased talking. Malcolm caught another nod from Kesek. The first course was to be served.

Copying Kesek's movements, Malcolm began to place bowls of _plomeek_ broth in front of the younger members of the Family, starting with the oldest girl and working his way down to a small boy of about four. None of them paid him any notice except for the boy, who turned his head when Malcolm served the broth.

"Can you help me with this?"

Malcolm was momentarily confused, until he saw the napkin the boy was holding out to him.

"Yes, _Osu_." Protocol or no, it seemed a ridiculous address for someone who had just asked for help with his bib. It was hardly the boy's fault, though. Setting his tray onto a small serving table, Malcolm took the napkin and began to tie it around the child's neck, just like he had done with Maddy when she was little.

"I don't know you," the boy stated earnestly, tilting his head slightly to one side. "What's your name?"

Malcolm was about to answer when one of the older girls cut him off. "Sikar," she said, giving the boy a reproachful look. "Do not speak to him."

"Why not?" the boy wanted to know.

One of the men sitting a few meters further down frowned at him. "Do as your cousin says, Sikar."

The boy inclined his head. "Yes, uncle," he muttered.

"No."

Heads were raised all along the table, and Malcolm also turned to see who had spoken. He was surprised when he realized that it was one of the Ladies. She seemed to be almost as old as the matriarch, her white hair partially hidden under a black scarf, a crutch leaning against the table next to her seat. The eyes in her hawk-like face were untouched by age, though, and there was a flash of anger in them as she continued.

"Let the child speak. I believe he has more to say than any of you."

The man sitting next to her, a frail-looking old gentleman, cleared his throat. "T'Var, _aduna're_..."

She ignored him, and suddenly Malcolm found himself the focus of her dark gaze. "Please," she said, and he realized that she was the first Vulcan here to say this word to him. "Answer my great-grandson's question."

Now all the Vulcans were staring at him. Malcolm found himself getting nervous in spite of himself. "My name's Krintu. _T'Sai_," he added quickly. Forgetting to properly address one of the Ladies would surely earn him another missed dinner, and maybe a flogging to boot. From the looks some of the Family were giving him, he supposed they would have liked to hand out the punishment right there and then.

The beginning of a smile crossed T'Var's face. "Thank you for helping my great-grandson, Krintu. I would like to do it myself, but I am afraid our Noble Protocol requires me to sit here while my favorite dinner partner is banished to the other end of the table."

Malcolm sensed that in this case, silence was indeed gold, and so he only bowed his head respectfully. To his relief, T'Var seemed to accept this and turned back to her dinner, ignoring the Family who were exchanging looks as they, too, returned their attention to their meal.

From the other side of the table, Kesek raised his eyebrows at him. "Close call", his expression said, and Malcolm agreed. There was obviously a friction here that went beyond a single incident during the evening meal.

Soon, the clearers came in to take away the soup dishes, and by the time the second course was served, the tense moment seemed to be over. The Vulcans were conversing in quiet, dignified voices, but Malcolm didn't really listen to what was being said. The Family didn't pay much attention to the carefully arranged vegetables on their plates; they hardly seemed aware of the food.

Malcolm wondered if Trip had eaten at all since Silak had sold him.

The worry was always there, at the back of his mind, and when he lay on his narrow cot at night, it wasn't the hunger that kept him awake. He knew he had to help Trip somehow; there was no way the engineer could escape on his own in his weakened condition. And of course, security would be especially strict in a weapons' factory. It was foolish to assume that Trip would be able to find a way out of there.

Unfortunately, his own chances of escape were equally slim. There were, of course, security cameras and laser sensors everywhere in the house and the gardens, but those he might be able to bypass or deactivate. The real problem was the collar. House Intendant Sahriv had placed the thin metal band on Malcolm's neck himself, calmly pointing out that any attempt to escape was illogical and a waste of time. The sensors inside the collar would alert the guards if Malcolm tried to leave the premises, and if he tried to break the metal, he'd trigger a shock mechanism that would render him unconscious for several hours. "I believe I do not have to tell you that the consequences of such an attempt would be extremely unpleasant," Sahriv had remarked mildly, and Malcolm saw no reason not to believe him. Trip, of course, might have found a way to undo the thing. The man was a real Houdini that way.

Malcolm stared out the window, at the lawns, the exotic trees and the garden wall beyond. There had to be a way. No prison was a hundred percent escape-proof; there were always gaps in security. He simply had to look in the right places.

An unobtrusive cough broke into his thoughts. Kesek's eyebrows were raised, and Malcolm suddenly became aware of the glass one of the Vulcan men was holding out to him. Quickly, he picked up a wine pitcher and hurried to refill the Vulcan's drink. From the other side of the table, Kesek was glaring at him, and Malcolm supposed he had hesitated a second too long. He sighed inwardly. If his fellow server decided to report him to Yumur, his dinner would go straight into the bin.

The Vulcan, a stout man with curly black hair, didn't seem to have noticed the delay.

"... do not believe that we should consider this investment an option," he was saying to the man next to him when Malcolm poured the wine. "Sonak does not use his workers to the highest possible gain. It is quite illogical."

"Very intriguing, Sesik." Like before, there was a pause in conversation when T'Var spoke up. Malcolm finished his task and quickly retreated into the background. He didn't want to be the focus of attention yet again. This time, however, the old lady only seemed interested in the curly-haired Vulcan.

"So you believe we should not invest in Sonak's company?" she asked, her tone deceptively mild.

"No, Lady," Sesik replied. He looked uncomfortable, seeming to realize that he had just maneuvered himself into a tight spot. "It does not seem the logical choice to me."

She raised an eyebrow. "And why would that be?"

"It appears to me that economic gain is not very high on Sonak's list of priorities. He purchases workers, but he does not use them to his profit."

"He lets them rest once in a while and does not starve them down to living skeletons, is that what you are trying to say?" T'Var's tone was still light and conversational.

Sesik seemed to shrink on his pillow. "Lady, I am merely saying..."

"You are saying that it is illogical to take your fellow beings' needs into consideration when there is money to be made, isn't that right?"

Sesik seemed at a loss for words. "Lady..."

"Let me see, Sesik... your living quarters are kept clean by humans, your meals are cooked by them, you are waited on hand and foot by humans every day... yes, I can see that there is no need for you to consider their well-being. It is not as if they give you anything in return."

"T'Var..." The old matriarch raised a hand. "It is true that we should endeavor to treat our fellow beings with kindness. Needless cruelty is illogical, as is excessive solicitude."

T'Var turned to her. "Am I to understand that you consider it "excessive solicitude" to acknowledge that humans are sentient beings, just like ourselves?"

"Humans have their place in the universe, as do we. It has always been that way."

"It has not." T'Var rose to her feet. "I would have expected better of you, sister. Who are we to decide how the universe was intended to work? 'The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own'."

"Surak," Sesik muttered quietly, but not quietly enough. T'Var's eyes came to rest on him.

"Surak indeed," she said calmly. "And he would cover his face in shame if he could see us today."

Awkwardly, she picked up her crutch and began to climb down the stairs that led from the platform. The Family sat in silence, watching her go. Almost at the door, T'Var turned around again.

"Enjoy your meal, Sikar," she said, and her hard expression softened a little as she looked at the boy. "If you wish, meet me later for a game of _kal-toh_. I am sure you will beat me this time."

"Yes, great-grandmother," Sikar replied happily, oblivious to the icy silence around him.

T'Var allowed herself a small smile. "I shall be looking forward to it."

With that, she was gone. The silence continued for a second or two, then Sesik raised his glass and emptied it in one gulp.

"Sometimes I would prefer to have my meals served in my living quarters," he muttered.

The matriarch looked at him. "Sesik, you are welcome to remain in your living quarters as you please. Yet if you decide to join us I expect you to show proper respect for your elders. That will be all."

Sesik bowed his head in embarrassment, and the rest of the Family returned to their dinner. No one commented on Lady T'Var's premature retiring, as the matriarch had made it clear that she would not condone any disrespectful remarks.

On the other side of the table, Kesek rolled his eyes at Malcolm, then schooled his face back into smooth, protocol-abiding indifference. Malcolm glanced at the door that had closed behind T'Var. There was a chance he had just found the gap in security he had been looking for.

* * *

"How long, T'Pol?"

T'Pol checked her readings, not commenting on the fact that the Captain had asked the same question only four minutes ago.

"The anomaly will establish itself in 2.35 minutes, Captain."

Archer nodded and turned back to the main screen. His posture betrayed tension, and although T'Pol did not allow herself to feel anything beyond mild anticipation, she understood why Archer was nervous. It had taken them six days to build the probe, and the simulations suggested that it would be able to pass through the anomaly undamaged. Yet there was a difference between simulations and the "real thing", as a human would have put it. As a scientist, T'Pol was the first to admit that there was no guarantee the probe would work when put to the test. There were too many variables they had not been able to take into account.

She glanced down at her console. "The anomaly is beginning to form again, sir."

All eyes immediately went to the main screen; illogically so, as there was nothing to see there. The naked eye, human or Vulcan, could not pick up a spatial distortion.

"The probe is ready for launch, Captain Archer," Halan announced from the tactical station.

Archer nodded once. "Take it in, Subcommander."

Halan entered the launching sequence, and Ensign Sato switched the main screen to the bow camera, giving them a view of the probe as it was dropped into space. T'Pol allowed herself a brief moment of pride as she watched the device glide towards the planet's surface. Even though it was a hastily assembled prototype, the probe was likely the most advanced of its kind.

"Five seconds until it enters the anomaly, Captain," she stated after a while. The probe was only a small glinting piece of metal now, hardly visible against the planet's blue surface.

"Switch to live view," Archer ordered. Ensign Sato made a few adjustments, and the main screen changed again, now showing the planet as seen from the camera inside the probe.

On T'Pol's viewscreen, the probe touched the first serrated line of the anomaly, passing into the distorted space. The image on the main screen wobbled a little, but other than that remained the same.

"Entering the anomaly now."

"I am diverting power to the probe's hull reinforcement," Halan announced from Tactical. "It should-"

He never finished his sentence. The main screen suddenly exploded in a cascade of colors, bright as lightning, as if someone had lit fireworks in space.

"T'Pol!" The Captain got up from his chair. "What's going on? Are we losing contact?"

"No, sir." T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the erratic readings. This was indeed fascinating, if unexpected. "It appears that the probe is recording the spatial distortions. What we see is a visual image of the electromagnetic charges inside the phenomenon."

"The hull reinforcement is losing power," Mevak said. He was bent over the engineering console, oblivious to the fiery spectacle in front of him. "The probe... I believe it is being sucked into some sort of vortex."

"Indeed," T'Pol said, suppressing a twinge of unease. As it appeared, the anomaly was not merely a "door" but a tiny spatial continuum of its own, its depths very capable of swallowing a small object like the probe. The computer simulations had not merely been faulty, they had been programmed on an incorrect assumption. At this point, T'Pol supposed Commander Tucker would have mentioned feces about to hit a ventilating device. "We're losing contact, Captain."

Archer took a step towards the tactical station. "Fire the thrusters! Now!"

As a precautionary measure, they had fitted the probe with miniature thrusters of its own, a measure which now proved its worth. For a moment, the image disappeared entirely, leaving the screen black and dead. Then, the camera went back online, the darkness erupting into color.

"T'Pol?"

"We are in contact with the probe again, Captain, but I do not believe that we will be for much longer. The circuitry has taken extensive damage inside the vortex."

She saw him biting back a curse. "Can we get it out on the other side?"

"I believe so," she said. "Subcommander Halan, divert more power to the thrusters. We should be able to record a sweep of the surroundings, if nothing else."

When the probe left the anomaly, it reminded T'Pol of a curtain being pulled open. The colors disappeared and suddenly the planet's surface came into view again, wisps of white clouds drifting over a turquoise sea.

"Doesn't look any different," Ensign Mayweather commented from the helm.

"It is not," T'Pol stated. "It seems that the planet exists on both sides of the phenomenon."

"So this is not the same planet we're seeing?" Sato asked, her voice colored with disbelief.

"It may be the planet's counterpart in the other spatial continuum," T'Pol replied. "Physically speaking, it is not the same world, no."

"Can you locate the shuttle anywhere on the surface?" Archer wanted to know. His demeanour was calm, but T'Pol noticed the underlying tension in his voice.

"No, Captain," she said. "But I believe I can calculate the approximate descent of the shuttle after it left the phenomenon. I am transmitting the coordinates to Tactical."

Directed by Halan, the probe picked up speed as it followed the shuttle's assumed course, breaking through layers of clouds. The ocean came into view, and T'Pol realized that the shuttle must have crashlanded in the water. Whether the two officers had still been alive at the time, she could only guess, but she refrained from doing so. The distress was visible on Archer's face as he stared at the waves.

"Captain, there is a mass of land only 2.3 kilometers away," she said. "I suggest we steer the probe in that direction. It is reasonable to assume that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed would have tried to reach the coast."

"Main systems are failing," Mevak announced. "I am activating the back-up systems."

The image on the screen blurred a little, the sea and sky melting.

"T'Pol?" Archer asked.

"The probe is losing power, Captain. It will not be able to maintain its course for much longer."

Archer turned to Tactical. "Divert all power from the hull to the thrusters."

"The circuitry will not be able to withstand the pressure;" Halan began, but Archer cut him off.

"Do it! I want to get that thing to the coast, if nothing else."

Halan bowed his head in acknowledgment, and the probe picked up speed once again, hurtling towards the land like an old-fashioned cruise missile. T'Pol could make out a silvery beach, a forest of blue, feathery trees and-

The image collapsed all of a sudden, and there was a collective muttered curse from the humans on the bridge.

"The probe is still on course and recording," T'Pol said with a glance at her readings. "It does not have enough power left to transmit a visual image, though."

"How far to the coast?" Archer wanted to know. "Can you tell?"

"The transmitted data suggests that it has just reached the land, " T'Pol said.

"Back-up systems are failing," Mevak stated, and a moment later: "I believe the probe has crashed, Captain."

Archer briefly closed his eyes. "Great."

"Captain." T'Pol paused for a moment to control the sudden surge of emotion within her. She re-checked her readings to be sure. Yes, there it was. "I believe the probe has picked up the signature of a phase pistol on the beach."

T'Pol had to admit that the change in Archer's face was pleasant to watch, emotional and uncontrolled as it was. There was a split second of disbelief, then his face broke into a broad smile. T'Pol wasn't sure she had seen this expression at all since Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed had disappeared.

"Any bio signs?"

She checked the data the probe had transmitted shortly before the crash. "Only flora and wildlife," she replied. "But I believe the phase pistol is sufficient proof that Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed have made it to the coast."

Halan raised an eyebrow at her. T'Pol knew that her last statement had bordered on illogical; it was not necessary to remind the Captain of the implications of her find.

Archer smiled at her. "That it is," he said. "Looks like they made it out of the shuttle in one piece."

"And Malcolm managed to grab a phase pistol." Ensign Sato smiled. "I'm sure he's all right."

"I wonder why he left it on the beach, though," Mayweather added. "That's not like him at all."

Archer nodded slowly. "That's what I thought."

"Maybe it was broken," T'Pol suggested. "The signature would still be there even if the weapon was damaged."

"It's possible," Archer said. "Speculations aside, I'd say we get back to work. We've got two people to get out of there."

"Captain." T'Pol knew that he was not going to like what she had to say next, but it could not be left unsaid, either. "It may take time to find a safe way to cross the anomaly."

He gave a curt nod. "Understood."

From the look on his face, T'Pol was not so sure he was telling the truth.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

Hi! Even if I don't always answer, I very much apprecate you letting me know what you think :)!

As for this chapter, Trip-whumping ahead!

Enjoy!

* * *

14

The roar of the machines was deafening. It reverberated in the vast factory hall, ever present, inundating every level, every gangway, every corner. The metal floor and the huge production lines seemed to vibrate with the sound, and the people, dwarfed by the machines they were tending, felt it in their very bones. Most of them never left the production hall, and after a while the noise became part of them, until they no longer really perceived it as a sound. The pounding was the last thing they heard when they fell asleep, and it was the first thing they became aware of when they were woken from their short periods of slumber. Like a heartbeat, it never changed, never altered its relentless rhythm. There was no escaping it.

On his first day, when he had collapsed in a corner of the sleeping area, Trip's head had pounded along with the machines, each throb bringing a new stab of pain. Curled up on the heap of rags that served as bedding, he'd wondered if he would survive another day of this. It seemed impossible. He couldn't linger over the thought as he fell asleep almost immediately, and was roused in what seemed an instant later by the waking call, the overseers' whips driving them back to their places at the production lines. Before he could even wonder how he was supposed to get through another fourteen hours, he was working again, his hands going through the same motions while sweat ran down his back and face, dripping into his eyes.

He was still lucky, all things considered. He'd been assigned to one of the punch presses - not exactly a walk in the park, but still better than the welding machines. Only few of the workers were given protection gear, and even they sported large, red blisters from the flying sparks. In comparison, his job was relatively safe, and under normal circumstances, he knew he would have been able to cope with the work, in spite of the endless shifts and the meager food and water rations. It wouldn't be a problem, if not for the damn foot.

When he had woken up this morning, his ankle had been swollen to almost twice its normal size, as were the stumps of the amputated toes. It hurt merely to move the foot; walking was agony. Jackson, who worked at the press next to his, had tried to support him on the way to their stations, but their overseer would have none of it. His whip had landed on each of their backs, his swears following Trip as the engineer limped, now without assistance, to his place behind the press. Workers weren't allowed to talk, let alone help each other, and the overseer seemed to have internalized the rule. The man was a human himself, and he was quicker to use the whip than any of his Vulcan colleagues, the slow and the weak being his most frequent victims. After only a week, Trip's back and shoulders were criss-crossed all over with welts and cuts.

"If you move any slower, you're going to fall asleep, Fifteen!"

_Speak of the devil_, Trip thought. The overseer had appeared behind his station again, flicking the whip in his direction.

Ignoring the man, Trip picked up another sheet of metal and shoved it under the punch. He wasn't even sure what kind of weapons component he was punching out of the metal; it looked like a torpedo hull to him, but he couldn't be sure. Malcolm might have recognized it, had he been here.

Trying not to dwell on the thought, Trip pushed down on the heavy controls. The punch came down with the usual thump, the excess metal dropping into the scrap container. As he limped forward to place the punched-out piece onto the conveyor belt, Trip felt the sting of the whip on his back. He bit down hard on his tongue. Showing weakness would only encourage the bastard to torment him even more.

"You're behind schedule, Fifteen! I'm giving you twenty minutes to catch up, starting now. If you're still lagging when the time's up, you're working double shift. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Trip struggled to keep the dismay out of his voice. His foot felt as if someone had dipped it in acid, and he was beginning to feel light-headed from the fever. He'd never get through another twenty-four hours of this; hell, he wasn't sure he could get through the ten hours that were left of this shift.

"Good." The overseer grinned and left. Trip pushed down on the controls again, wishing it were the man's head under the heavy iron ram. Somehow, the fact that it was a human doing this to him filled him with shame and rage at the same time.

"What an ass kisser," a voice said next to him. Trip looked up. Jackson was standing at the conveyor belt, white teeth showing in his filthy, sweat-covered face. He didn't seem to care whether any of the overseers heard him. "You okay?" he asked. "You're as white as a sheet."

"I'm okay," Trip said. His foot was throbbing as if it were going to burst.

"Yeah, I can see that." Jackson paused, then placed the component he had just punched out on Trip's side of the conveyor.

"Don't-" Trip began, but Jackson cut him off.

"You're never going to catch up with schedule on your own. And I'd love to see the smirk wiped off Ass Kisser's face."

Trip lifted his own component onto the conveyor. "Thanks," he said quietly. Jackson was right; on his own, he might as well volunteer for the double shift right away.

"That's alright," Jackson said in a tone that reminded Trip very much of Malcolm. Malcolm would have done the same thing for him - Malcolm _had_ done the same thing, trying to protect him when Silak came to take one of them outside for questioning. Damn fool Brit.

Trip brought up a hand to wipe the sweat off his face. It had been horrible, sitting in the cell and listening to Malcolm being "interrogated" in the yard outside. When they'd finally dragged him back inside and dumped him on the floor like so much trash, unconscious and bleeding, Trip had wanted to strangle Silak with his bare hands. Now, the thought of the Vulcan filled him with dull fear. There was no telling what Silak had done to Malcolm after Trip was gone. Maybe he had killed him.

As he had done so many times before, Trip pushed the thought aside. He refused to believe that Malcolm was dead, that he was left alone in this hellish place. His confidence, however forced, was the only thing that kept him going - that, and the thought of getting away.

He couldn't afford to give up on either of them.

* * *

"Krintu."

Malcolm looked up from the bowl of _pla-savas_ he was seeding. Yumur was standing there, hands on her hips, and Malcolm wondered if he'd done something wrong. Surreptitiously, he glanced down at his hands. His gloves were still more or less clean, and he hadn't made too much of a mess on the table, either.

"Yes, First Cook?"

"Go wash up. It's your turn to serve the tea today."

"Yes, ma'am." Malcolm wiped off the seeding knife and dropped his gloves into the laundry basket next to the door. It was customary for the older members of the Family to gather for a jar of _Theris_ tea in the afternoon - not unlike back home, Malcolm had thought when he'd first heard of it. For a moment, he indulged in the strange image of Vulcans in an "Old England" setting, perched in front of a fire place and sipping Earl Grey with their little finger sticking out. Which, he guessed, made him the stern-looking, black-suited butler. Trip would have cracked a rib laughing.

The thought of Trip made his smile fade. He stepped into the small lavatory adjoining the kitchen and scrubbed his hands, then returned to the main room where Yumur was waiting for him with a fresh pair of gloves.

"Here," she said. "The tea's over there." She nodded at a tray waiting on the counter. "Dishes are already in the Tea Room. Now, remember to serve Lady T'Sia first, if she's there. If not, start with the oldest person present, and work your way down. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You can go, then." Yumur gave him one of her rare smiles. "I'll have them prepare a bowl for you when you're done."

"Thank you, ma'am." With Yumur keeping an eye on it, he hoped that this time, his dinner wouldn't consist of vegetable peelings and old breadcrusts, or be left to congeal into an inedible mush. He knew that some of the staff looked down their noses at him since they'd learned where House Intendant Sahriv had picked him up. They made no secret of the fact that 'one like him' didn't belong in the Noble House of Sreman, much less as a server rather than a mere kitchen slave. Malcolm didn't waste much thought on it; it wasn't as if he wanted to make himself at home here. Still, their antipathy could work to his disadvantage if he tried something. And the "something", whatever it was, would have to be soon. More than a week had passed, and Malcolm had yet to discover the opportunity he had been looking for.

As he carried the tea upstairs, he wondered, not for the first time, if he should just try to climb over the garden wall and run for it. The sensors in his collar would alert the guards, but maybe he could manage to outrun them until he was out of range. He doubted the collar was designed to transmit his signal beyond a few kilometers. It might even work, as desperate a plan as it was. The sleeping chamber he shared with four other servants wasn't locked at night, and it wasn't unusual for one of them to disappear, come bed time. Mesya frequently snuck off to visit his girlfriend, and there were the times one of the Vulcans required "services". Malcolm grimaced. He had been lucky so far, but there was no guarantee that it would stay that way. It was another reason why he needed to be out of here as soon as possible.

The Tea Room was on one of the upper floors of the house, a sunny conservatory overlooking the gardens. When Malcolm entered, he found only four members of the Family present, among them Lady T'Var and her youngest great-grandson, Sikar. The Vulcans were sitting on large, ornate floor cushions, each with a small table next to them. The other two, an elderly couple, ignored him as he came in, their heads bowed forward in quiet conversation. Sikar and T'Var turned around immediately.

"Hello, Krintu!" The little boy smiled, oblivious to the reproachful look he received from the elderly man. "Do you have my _krei'la_?"

Malcolm glanced down at the tray and found a dish with small brown biscuits sitting on it. "I think so." The elderly man's stern look was immediately fixed on him, and he hurried to add the proper address. "_Osu._"

"I am not certain it is wise to indulge a young child like this." The woman next to the man raised a thin eyebrow. "He should not be given sweets in between the meal times."

Sikar's face fell, but Lady T'Var merely raised an eyebrow in return. "T'Per, surely you do not think that five _krei'la_ biscuits are a sign of immoderate indulgence. In fact, I shall ask my great-grandson to indulge an old woman and share the _krei'la_ with me."

"I will, great-grandmother!" Sikar smiled again, and T'Var's crinkled face grew softer as she looked at him.

"That is generous of you, Sikar'am. Please – " She raised a hand when Malcolm made to pour tea into her dish. "Serve my great-grandson first, Krintu. He has been awaiting his tea with far more enthusiasm than I have mustered in years."

"Yes, _T'Sai_." Out of the corners of his eyes, Malcolm noticed T'Per's disapproving frown.

"You spoil the child, mother."

Malcolm was surprised to see the old lady smile. "I admit it, daughter. But at my age, I believe a great-grandmother is entitled to such liberties."

It was obvious that both T'Per and her husband didn't agree. They said nothing, however, and merely watched in rigid silence as their own tea was served. For some reason, the stern couple suddenly reminded Malcolm of his own parents. The "no sweets between mealtimes" rule could have come straight from his father's mouth.

"Thank you, Krintu," T'Var said after he had filled the last dish with sweet-smelling tea. This drew another sour look from T'Per's husband and a raised eyebrow from T'Per. Malcolm inclined his head and retreated into the background, having no wish to be caught in the family crossfire.

"Now, daughter," T'Var said, taking a sip from her tea. "I heard you were telling Skon about an interesting find one of your search parties brought back to the institute. What was it, a satellite of some kind?"

"We are not sure yet," T'Per replied. "The object was found on a beach in the South Country. Research Leader Sokar has asked me to examine it in greater detail."

"Ah!" T'Var's eyes came alive with interest. "So you have it here?"

"It is in my study, yes."

"I would like to have a look at it, if you have no objections."

T'Per didn't seem very enthusiastic. "Of course, mother."

"I do not believe it has anything to do with the... phenomenon, T'Var," Skon said. There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Not that I believe in its existence, of course."

"I know you do not," T'Var said calmly.

Malcolm bit down on the inside of his lip. The South Country. It was where he and Trip had set up camp before their Vulcan captors showed up. It seemed unlikely that any of this should have to do with them, and yet his heart picked up a beat. What if it _had_ to do with them? What if the object, whatever it was, had come from... the other side?

"What is a phenomenon, great-grandmother?" Sikar asked.

T'Var turned to him. "It is something unusual, something we do not see every day. There's an area in the South Country where unusual things have been known to happen."

"What kind of things?" Sikar had forgotten about his biscuits, his eyes glued on his great-grandmother's face.

"Transports have disappeared, electronic equipment has been known to malfunction," T'Var said, and Malcolm had the distinct impression that she was talking to the boy as well as to T'Per and Skon. "Once, about fifty years ago, some humans working on the fields close to the coast reported that they had seen a ship appear in the sky and fall into the sea. Unfortunately, the incident was never investigated."

"Why not?" Sikar asked.

Skon joined the conversation, arching a condescending eyebrow. "Humans, like children, have a fertile imagination," he said. He, in turn, was addressing T'Var rather than Sikar. "Those field workers may have seen a flash of lightning or a fast-moving cloud, and became agitated because they did not recognize it for what it was. One is wise never to take anything a human says at face value."

"Is that so?" T'Var's voice was almost amused. "You will forgive me, son-in-law, but your gift of imagination must be quite strong as well, if you can envision a cloud that suddenly appears and falls into the sea." Ignoring Skon's sour expression, she looked back at Sikar. "I have been gathering information about the phenomenon for quite a while, and I shall be very interested to have a look at the object your grandmother's team found on the beach."

_Same here_. Malcolm had been listening to T'Var's account with growing excitement. He had to get his hands on that "satellite" as soon as possible. The ship the field slaves had seen... it must have crashed into the sea just like their shuttle. So this wasn't the first time someone had crossed the barrier. How often had someone found themselves in another universe all of a sudden?

"You, what was your name... Krintu!"

Malcolm blinked. Skon was holding out his tea dish, a thin line of disapproval appearing between his eyebrows. "Have you fallen asleep? Humans," he said to T'Per while Malcolm hurried to pour him some more tea. "Sometimes I wonder how their race managed to survive until we came."

T'Var turned to him, and this time there was no amusement in her dark eyes. "Maybe the humans were luckier than we were, Skon. Think of Vulcan after the Two Hundred Years' War. Would we not have benefitted if another species had come to take over and rule our world? All the rebuilding, the struggle for a balance of power... it would have been done for us. Of course, they might have decided that we weren't fit to survive on our own and kept us in slavery and dependence. But that is a small price to pay for a comfortable living, is it not, son-in-law?"

Skon exchanged a long-suffering look with T'Per. "T'Var... you cannot compare our own people to the humans. Humans are weak in mind and body, they let their emotions run free and rule their lives. A species like that is best off in servitude."

"No species is best off in slavery," T'Var said quietly. "They are different from us, yes, but difference does not necessarily imply inferiority. 'Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear'."

"Please, mother." T'Per let out a tiny sigh. "Can we, for once, finish our tea without you quoting Surak?"

T'Var seemed unwilling to leave it at that, but after a glance at Sikar's anxious expression, she gave in, silently sipping her tea. Malcolm knew that under any other circumstances, Skon's arrogance would have infuriated him to the point where he might have said something, at the risk of being sent to Sahriv for punishment. Right now, however, he couldn't bring himself to care; all he wanted was for the Vulcans to finish their tea and leave. T'Per's office was on the second floor in the north wing of the building. It would be child's play to get inside.

TBC…

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	15. Chapter 15

Thanks for your comments, I love hearing what you think as the story progresses!

* * *

15

The corridor was empty. With a glance over his shoulder, Malcolm ventured forward, listening for the sound of voices or steps approaching. If he was caught here at this hour, there would be trouble, and trouble would most likely consist of a trip to the Correction Room, the last place where any servant wanted to be.

Slipping away after tea hadn't been as easy as he had expected. Yumur had assigned him to wash and seed more _pla'savas_, and after that he had to be in the Meal Hall to attend the Family during the evening meal. It was only now, after curfew, that he had managed to get away. It was risky, yet Malcolm knew he couldn't have waited until the next day. He had to get a look at the object in T'Per's office.

The door to her study wasn't locked as Malcolm had expected it to be. It seemed unusually careless, especially since the Family weren't exactly trusting when it came to their human servants. Then, of course, the servants had no interest in stealing books and data padds.

_Well, maybe this one does_. Malcolm tried not to think of the consequences if he was discovered "fooling around" with a scientific specimen, even if it wasn't believed to be of much importance. Only two days ago, Dzharel had been caught using Sahriv's computer to send a message to her brother on the neighbor estate. Rumor had it she had to be carried back to her sleeping chamber.

Very quietly, Malcolm closed the door behind him and took a quick look around the study. It was sparsely furnished, and would have seemed austere if not for the many flowers in front of the window. He didn't dare switch on the light, and so it took him a moment until he saw the large container sitting on the desk. His heartbeat was loud in his ears as he crossed the room. Part of him was prepared to be disappointed; surely the search team had merely discovered an old satellite that had dropped out of orbit, or some other piece of electronic garbage. T'Pol could have told him the exact odds, had she been here, and Malcolm was sure that they were not in his favor.

As he got closer, he noticed that the container wasn't sealed; there wasn't even a manual lock. Obviously, this was a mere routine find to T'Per and her colleagues, not a discovery of any significance. Which made him wonder how many such objects had been found in the South Country. Or could it be that the Vulcans simply weren't interested in "unusual happenings", as T'Var had put it?

Carefully, Malcolm lifted the plastic lid off the container, half expecting an alarm to go off any minute. Nothing happened; the room remained dark and quiet as he leaned forward to get a closer look.

For a second or two, he stood very still. It only took him a brief look to realize that the thing inside the container hadn't only come from the other side.

Enterprise had sent it. He would have recognized the design anywhere.

His heart was beating madly as he reached into the container and very carefully ran a hand over the metal plating. It was dented and scratched as if it had been tossed about in an asteroid field, and there was some sort of hull reinforcement he wasn't familiar with. They must have come up with a way to get this thing through the barrier, and maybe they had even managed to save some of the data it had recorded, for this was obviously a probe of some sort.

His arms trembling a little, Malcolm reached into the container and closed his hands around the probe. Maybe he could find a way to reactivate it, transmit a signal. Maybe he could send them a message. Maybe-

The light went on so suddenly that he had no time to react. His hands let go of the probe as if on their own volition, his instincts telling him to run, but he knew that it would only make things worse if he tried to make a break for it. Blinded by the sudden glare, he could only make out the outlines of a figure in the doorframe, and for a moment wondered whether his luck had run really dry and his nightly excursion had been discovered by the House Intendant himself.

Then, the person in the door spoke – not, as he had expected, in an angry tone of voice, but with quiet amusement.

"If you are here for a secret rendezvous, Krintu, I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate place."

He stared, frozen into place, as Lady T'Var slowly closed the door behind her. Strangely enough, she was smiling slightly as she turned back to him.

"I believe there is a spot in the herbarium where the young people like to meet. Maybe you should ask your bunkmate Mesya for advice next time."

Her eyes were gentle, and Malcolm suddenly realized that he was still standing there with his arms in the container. Quickly, he pulled them out, very aware that there was no sense in denying what he had been about to do. If she reported him to Sahriv, the very least that would happen to him was a whipping.

"Do not worry," she said as if she had read his thoughts. "I have never been prone to "tattling", as my great-grandson would call it. I do have the impression, though, that you are not here for an assignation."

Malcolm's mind raced. If he came up with some story, she would see through it immediately, and she might not take kindly to being lied to. And she did seem genuine in her assurance that she would not betray him.

He exhaled slowly. "No, _T'Sai_."

She regarded him calmly. "You had been planning to come here ever since tea, had you not?"

He inclined his head. "Yes, _T'Sai_. I wanted to get a look at the object Lady T'Per was telling you about."

For a moment, he was tempted to add that he had always been interested in the phenomenon, maybe spin a tale about his father being one of the field workers who had seen the ship fall into the sea. He remained silent, though. She wouldn't believe him anyway.

T'Var was watching him, her expression unfathomable. "You know something about it, don't you?" she said finally.

He hesitated. "Yes, I do," he said then. "I think I know who sent it."

"Sent it?" Her eyebrows shot up. "You mean it was meant to turn up here?"

Malcolm nodded. "I believe it came from the... the other side."

"The other side?" T'Var asked. "What do you mean? There is only one other continent on this planet, and it is uninhabited."

Malcolm remained silent, unsure what to say, or, in fact, whether it was wise to say anything at all.

"Please," she said softly. The word sounded unusual, coming from a Vulcan – or, at least, one of these Vulcans. "You can trust me."

He gave her a long look. He wasn't entirely sure that he could trust her, but what choice did he have? If she was like the rest of them, she would have the truth forced out of him soon enough. And if she wasn't... if she wasn't, this might be his only chance.

He nodded slowly. Trip would have made the same choice, he was sure of that.

To his own surprise, the words seemed to come out with little help on his part, as if he had held them back for far too long. He mentioned things and names he had sworn he would never say aloud in this place, told her about the sudden, unexplained malfunctions, the crash landing, his futile tries to reach Enterprise. The shock of suddenly finding themselves in a world that, according to the rules of their own universe, shouldn't exist at all. She listened in silence as he told her about Silak's interrogations and the _Zhel-lan's_ decision to sell Trip in order to force a confession from Malcolm.

"He wouldn't have believed me even if I'd told him the truth. And Trip... I've no idea where he is now. I don't even know if he's still alive."

Saying it out loud loosened something within him, and he looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes. "But at least they're still looking for us. They sent a probe through the barrier, and..."

Malcolm trailed off. T'Var had rested a frail hand on his arm, her tone gentle as she spoke. "I am sure they will not give up." She paused for a moment, and for some reason, her own voice was rather brittle when she spoke again. "Krintu... Malcolm. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to hear about what you call the other side. I have always suspected that there is something in the South Country, a... phenomenon, but even in my wildest dreams I wouldn't have thought of a... a door to another universe." She smiled ruefully. "Maybe I would do well to acquire what Skon calls a "fertile imagination". It might have guided my research into the right direction."

Her expression became serious again, almost tense. "So you are saying there are Vulcans in your universe?"

He nodded. "Yes. They're our allies."

There was a long silence after that. T'Var's fierce, dark eyes were tinged with sadness, and he could only guess what was going on in her head.

When she finally spoke again, her voice had regained its firmness. "We will find him."

Malcolm looked at her. "You mean-"

"We will find your Trip." She smiled a little as she said the name. "It should not be too difficult. Aylak runs several factories, and it should be easy enough to find out where his newest purchases were sent. We will find him, and then you two will tell me everything about the other side."

He opened his mouth, not even sure what he was about to say, when she tightened her grip on his arm. "You will have to forgive an old woman for her curiosity," she said. "I have been waiting for a chance like this for over a hundred and fifty years."

Malcolm understood what she was trying to tell him, and found himself returning her smile. "Still," he said. "Thank you."

"It is I who owe you thanks, Malcolm. May I call you that? I like it better than "Krintu"."

Malcolm nodded emphatically. "Please do. I rather prefer it myself."

His name might be old-fashioned and rather stuffy – some people would say that it was an apt fit – but it was better than the alternative.

She raised an amused eyebrow, but made no further comment. Instead she glanced at the container on the desk. "You said your friend is an engineer?"

"He's Chief Engineer on our ship."

"Then I am sure he will be interested in having a look at T'Per's find. That is, if I can convince her to hand it to me for my researches."

It was all she said, but Malcolm recognized it for what it was: a promise.

"Thank you, _T'Sai_." He stressed the address, wanting her to know that it was used out of genuine respect, and not because protocol demanded it. "I'm grateful that you're willing to help us."

Again, she looked amused, the ancient face smiling without actually moving a muscle. "Do not thank me yet, Malcolm, or you will come to regret it when I bore you to death with my questions. I must warn you, I am not one to tire easily."

"I'd be glad to answer any questions you have, _T'Sai_." And it was true. As long as she helped him find Trip and do something about the probe, he would talk until he was blue in the face.

She smiled. "That is very good to hear."

* * *

"I have to admit, I am still confused. If it was a predictable fact that the Andorian agent would betray her, why did Ms. Bond decide to trust him?"

At Halan's genuinely baffled tone, T'Pol experienced a touch of amusement. She had never taken much interest in Movie Night, in spite of Commander Tucker's invitations, but she knew that the humans' fictional narratives employed their own brand of logic. Halan's attempts to analyze a film according to _cthia_, the ancient, mathematical logic of Vulcan, were bound to end in disaster.

Focused on her readings as she was, no one in the science lab would have guessed that she was listening to Ensign Sato's reply.

"Well, he was one of the Bond boys. Of course she'd trust him."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Ensign Mayweather smiled. "The Bond films are a series. They've been made for hundreds of years, but the patterns haven't really changed, except that some of the films now feature Jacey Bond instead of James Bond. So of course she has Bond boys instead of Bond girls."

Sato seemed to notice that this only confused the two Vulcans even more. "The Bond girls or boys try to seduce Bond, but they usually work for the bad guys or were sent to take over Bond's mission. So in the end, Bond never really gets together with them. They're mostly there for their good looks."

"Ah." Mevak paused. "So the films denounce the superficial physical relationships in Earth's crime fighting scene?"

At that, both Mayweather and Sato started laughing. "Not really," Sato said. "They're not supposed to be taken entirely seriously. Most people just watch them for fun."

"Except for Malcolm," Mayweather added. "I saw him take notes."

Sato smiled. "Well, he would."

Silence ensued after that, and T'Pol supposed that it was the mention of Lieutenant Reed that had sobered the mood.

She had been unwilling to interrupt their conversation before, knowing that the light exchanges were beneficial to the morale of the team. Now, a change of subject did not seem amiss. "The analysis is complete," she announced, and nothing in her demeanor gave away that she had been listening to their previous conversation. "It appears that 40 percent of _seleya-tukh_ will suffice to make the alloy resilient against the electromagnetic charges."

Halan came over to look at the data. "I will let our colleagues on the _Vuhnaya_ know so that they can begin the resequencing."

Sato had also stepped forward to look at the readings. "Are you sure this will work? We almost lost the probe when it was pulled into the vortex. How do we know the shuttle won't get lost inside the anomaly?"

"The thrusters are powerful enough to withstand the strain," T'Pol replied. "Otherwise, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed would have been pulled into the vortex as well. We have to assume, however, that the shuttle will be harder to pilot once it is encased in the duranium-_seleya-tukh_ alloy."

"I've run a few simulations," Mayweather said. "I believe I can find a way to compensate the interferences." He smiled. "It'll be a bumpy ride, though."

Sato's expression was thoughtful. "If we route Navigations into the main computer, we'll have a back-up even if the shuttle's power systems go temporarily offline."

"A logical suggestion," T'Pol said. "I shall mention it in my report to the Captain. Please proceed."

The four younger members of the team returned to their work stations, and T'Pol allowed herself a moment's contemplation. She had watched the young Vulcan couple interact with the human crew for almost a month now, curious to see how they would cope. And admittedly, she had been surprised. Their readiness and ability to adapt to human ship routine was exceptional, and certainly beyond the expectations of her superiors, who had warned her that remaining on the human ship would prove "challenging". Sato and Mayweather, on the other hand, seemed willing to accept the two young men as colleagues and, if their shared off-duty activities were anything to go by, even as friends. Moreover, their joint efforts in preparing a shuttle to cross the anomaly were proceeding with remarkable speed and determination. There seemed to be a new possibility in all of this, one none of her superiors had reckoned with. Maybe a crew consisting of more than one species would not, as many believed, end up in chaos. Maybe its potential exceeded that of an only-human, or only-Vulcan crew.

Entering the Captain's ready room half an hour later, T'Pol saw that it was not a good time to share her musings with Archer. He was sitting at his desk, padds piled up on either side of the monitor, and only gave her a short glance when she approached. On the screen in front of him, the three-dimensional schematic of a shuttle pod was slowly revolving around its axis.

"I've gone through Travis' simulations," he said without greeting. "If we apply support beams to the wings, we'll be thrown off course by the first magnetic gust of wind. What we need to do is replace the wings with components made of the alloy you suggested."

T'Pol stepped behind his chair to look at the data. "Indeed. A logical approach."

Archer nodded curtly, but T'Pol doubted that he had really heard her answer. The set of his shoulders was tense, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, suggesting that he had not slept well. Or, T'Pol thought as she surveyed the number of padds and schematics on his desk, maybe not at all.

"Captain," she said.

He threw a look over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"May I suggest you take a break and get some sleep? Logic dictates that your work will improve when you are well-rested."

"Not now, T'Pol." He had turned back to the schematics. "I want to get this show on the road."

T'Pol suppressed a small sigh. This was a conversation she had not been looking forward to.

"Captain," she said. "In my estimation, it will be several weeks before we can safely attempt to cross the anomaly. I trust you do not intend to spend the entire time working."

At that, Archer whirled around in his chair. "Several weeks?"

"Indeed. It will take time to design a functioning support frame for the shuttle, and I believe we should attempt at least one unmanned test flight before we send a rescue team through the anomaly."

Archer shook his head. "You mean, send the shuttle in there on remote control? We can't afford to waste time, T'Pol."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at him. "It would not be a waste of time, Captain. It will not improve Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed's situation if we endanger more crewmembers in an attempt to rescue them."

His mouth turned into a hard line. "They could be dying over there, T'Pol."

T'Pol had been prepared to encounter this argument. "The probe recorded a rather detailed image of the surroundings before it crashed. I have analyzed the data, and I believe that the chances are approximately 20:1 that Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker will be able to survive for an indefinite amount of time. They have both gone through field training, and Lieutenant Reed has expert knowledge on how to survive in almost any environment. And the conditions over there can hardly be called harsh. The climate is fairly mild, and there is enough fauna and flora to provide sufficient food and shelter."

"They could have been hurt in the crash," Archer said, a little louder than before. "Ever thought of that? Maybe only one of them made it to the coast at all."

T'Pol inclined her head. "I have taken this possibility into account," she said. "But I do not believe it very likely."

Archer didn't reply immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than before, almost resigned. "They're both so damn stubborn, aren't they?"

"Indeed," T'Pol said. "I do not believe Lieutenant Reed or Commander Tucker would leave an injured crewmate behind, even if it were the logical thing to do."

Archer nodded. "I guess they both made it to the coast, then. They could still be in trouble, though."

"They could," T'Pol agreed. It was illogical to deny it. "Yet I do not believe that they would want us to endanger their crewmates' lives or omit crucial safety precautions."

An ironic smile tugged at Archer's mouth. "Now you sound like Malcolm."

T'Pol said nothing. Her choice of words had not been entirely unintentional.

The Captain sighed. "I guess you're right. We should send in another probe in the meantime, though. Maybe we can pick up their biosigns this time."

T'Pol's face betrayed none of the relief she felt. She had not expected the Captain to submit to logic, at least not so quickly.

"I shall begin immediately."

She had already turned to leave when Archer called her back. "T'Pol?"

"Yes, Captain?"

He smiled, and this time there was nothing bitter or ironic about it. "Thanks."

She looked at him, and, for once, did not point out that thanks were not necessary. "You are welcome."

TBC…

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	16. Chapter 16

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16

_Thump._

Metal impacted on metal, another sheet transformed and twisted into the shape of the component. There was a sound like a sigh when the press came up again, ready to bear down on the next workpiece, and a sharp clank as the excess metal dropped into the scrap container. He had come to know the sounds as well as his own heartbeat.

And he had to be a part of it. He had to function.

Limp forward, lift the component, place it on the conveyor.

Take a new sheet from the cart, place it on the bed of the press.

Press the controls.

Another thump.

It reverberated in his body, and not for the first time there was the mental image of the punch as it came down on his left foot, tearing skin, breaking bones with one swift stroke. Maybe, on the long run, it would be the better choice. The foot was dying, slowly but surely. The stumps of the toes had turned from red and swollen to purple and bloated to black and festering. Whenever he unwrapped the grimy, dirt-stained bandages, dark yellow pus dripped down from the infected wounds, and the necrotic skin came off in flakes. What was even worse, the toes next to the missing ones were beginning to get infected as well. Already they were swollen and tender, and he knew that it was only a matter of time until they would be dying as well. That was, if he didn't beat them to it. He was no doctor, but he was fairly sure what Phlox' diagnosis would have been. The grimy floor of the production hall was paradise for bacteria of all kinds, and it was no surprise that some of them had found their way into the open wounds and his bloodstream. Blood poisoning could kill a person pretty quick.

That was what he hoped, at least.

_Thump._

The press rose again with a sigh, and he limped forward, trying to put his weight on the heel. At least the chain was attached to the other ankle. Ass Kisser had wanted to fit the cuff around the swollen ankle of his left leg, but one of the other overseers had stopped him.

"He can hardly walk as it is," the Vulcan had said, and Ass Kisser had no choice but to obey, albeit grudgingly.

It was now two days ago that they had chained him. In spite of Jackson's help, he had been hopelessly behind schedule again, and this time Ass Kisser had reported him to the foreman. After one look at his feverish face and sickly pallor, the Vulcan had come to the conclusion that there was no logic in letting him rest.

"He's dying," he had said. "He would be a useless drain on our resources, lounging about in the sleeping area. Better get out of him what we can."

They had tethered him to his station by means of a long heavy chain, and whenever he paused in his work only briefly, the overseer's whip would sting on his back, reminding him that he could only cease to function when he was dead, and not a moment sooner. Every twenty hours, he was allowed two hours of rest, which he spent passed out on the floor while another slave tended the press for him. He had not been given food in the two days that had passed, his only sustenance being handfuls of water from a bucket they had provided. Once, Jackson had managed to slip him a crust of bread, but he hadn't been able to keep it down.

Their intention was clear. They wanted to work him to death so that he could be substituted with a healthy, fully functioning slave. Trip had reached a point where he no longer really thought about it. He had long since stopped thinking of Enterprise or Malcolm, and from there it was only a small step to stop thinking at all. He merely functioned, moving in the rhythm of the machine in front of him, going through the same motions a thousand times while his mind was on the brink of slipping away. The press had become his heartbeat, quite literally. When it stopped, he would stop as well.

_Thump._

It was his cue. He limped towards the machine, his eyes on the gray component. It was strangely distorted, seeming very large all of a sudden, and when he wanted to grasp it, his hands only met thin air. Blinking slowly, he tried again. He couldn't touch it, and yet it seemed to have grown, the gray fog hindering his view, and it was growing still. He shook his head, blinking to clear his vision, and hardly noticed that he had taken a stumbling step backwards.

The entire press had now disappeared behind a gray wall, and there was a strange roar in his ears that seemed to be getting louder, drowning out even the ever-present pounding of the production hall. He felt very light, the pain in his foot only a distant ache now, and if there was more pain, as if his head had hit the floor, he scarcely realized it. The gray was everywhere now, and he was floating on it, drifting-

"Get up!"

A sharp pain in his side brought him back. He blinked. Ass Kisser was standing over him, grinning as he pulled his foot back for another kick into Trip's ribcage.

"Get up, Fifteen! On your feet, now!"

Trip couldn't suppress a pained whimper, mostly because the overseer's kick had jostled his foot. Ass Kisser raised his whip.

"I'm counting to three. One, two..."

Behind the overseer's back, Jackson was looking at him, nodding. _You can do it._ Slowly, Trip pushed himself into a sitting position, his palms slipping on the greasy metal floor.

"Three!" Ass Kisser crowed, grabbed Trip's hair and pulled him to his feet. "You look like shit, Fifteen. And I think you need a reminder of how things work round here. When I tell you to get up, you're on your feet in an instant, is that clear?"

Trip said nothing. Fragments of gray were still drifting at the edges of his vision, and his mouth seemed to have forgotten how to formulate a reply, let alone remember the right words.

"Okay, that's it." The overseer let go of his hair, and Trip swayed on his feet for a moment, the gray threatening to engulf him again. A boot connected with his swollen ankle and he fell down with a strangled cry of pain. It was as if a knife had sliced through his leg.

"... shut your goddamn mouth," the overseer's voice was saying somewhere far away, and then he felt hands at the back of his shirt, tearing it open. There was a whistling sound as the whip cut through the air, and Trip screamed as the first blow tore into his bare skin.

_"No!"_

When Trip raised his head again, he knew that he was really going mad. Malcolm was there, but of course he was not, he was a figment of Trip's imagination which seemed to have gone haywire, showing him things that could not be real. Ass Kisser was no longer standing. The overseer was on his back, straddled by Malcolm who was beating the living daylights out of him, each punch into Ass Kisser's face accompanied by a hissed word.

"Bloody – fucking – bastard –"

_You go, Mal_. The gray fog was back once more, and Trip didn't fight it. He laid his head down on the floor, and, just as the other overseers pulled Malcolm off the sobbing man on the floor, quietly passed out, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

"Your crazy _pau'kaluk_ almost killed one of my overseers, Lady!"

The foreman's face was flushed an angry green, but T'Var didn't seem very impressed. "Judging by the volume of his complaints, he seems very much alive to me." Out of the corners of his eyes, Malcolm saw her raise an eyebrow. "It may be... educational for him to get a dose of his own medicine."

"Lady..."

Malcolm didn't bother to listen to the foreman's reply. He was kneeling next to Trip on the floor, still trying to get over the shock of seeing him like this. Trip looked like hell, his chest torn and bloodied by dozens of welts and cuts, his thin face dripping with sweat. It was obvious that he had had no chance to wash or shave since he had come here, and his clothes were mere rags, holes gaping where the whip had torn through the thin fabric. Worst of all was his injured foot; even through the filthy bandage, Malcolm could smell the sickly odor of dying flesh.

"You came just in time."

Malcolm looked up, and into a familiar face.

"They were going to kill him," Jackson said. "Ass Kisser was going to beat him to death."

"Ass Kisser" obviously referred to the human overseer, who, at a safe distance, was nursing his broken nose. Malcolm rubbed over his sore knuckles. He had no illusions that he might have killed the man, if the Vulcans hadn't pulled him back.

"...believe there are those who would be interested in the way you are running this factory." T'Var's tone was calm, but Malcolm sensed the underlying fury. When they had entered the production hall, passing row after row of miserable, underfed human slaves sweating away at the machines and conveyor belts, her face had grown rigid, and she had not spoken until the foreman had come to meet them.

The plump Vulcan seemed unsure how to deal with the old lady, who quite clearly did not belong in a place like this. "Lady, I think you should speak with Aylak. He's in his office in the administration building."

"Then please ask him to come here," T'Var said, still quite calm. She looked at Trip. "I do not think that this poor man can walk anywhere."

"Lady..." Had the foreman been human, he would have been wringing his hands. "_K'lek_ Aylak does not conduct business in the production halls."

"Well, maybe he should. Maybe he should set up his desk right here, where he can see just how those under him benefit from his generosity."

"Lady..."

"Please ask _K'lek_ Aylak to come here to speak to _T'Sai_ T'Var of the Noble House of Sreman," T'Var said, her tone allowing no room for argument. "I will be waiting for him."

The foreman sighed. "I will see what I can do, _T'Sai._"

"Thank you."

She watched him leave, then turned around to Malcolm. "How is your friend?"

"His wounds are infected." Malcolm pointed at the grimy bandage, afraid to think of what it might conceal. "He's very ill."

"Healer Sten will know what to do," she said. "I only wish I could bring him here to tend to the rest of these poor people as well. It is a shame," she added with unusual vehemence. "I knew Aylak's factories were sub-standard, but I had no idea that it was so bad."

One of the other overseers had stepped closer, prodding Jackson with his whip. "You, back to work! Now!"

T'Var raised a hand. "Wait! I want to speak with this man."

The overseer didn't dare argue with her. "On your feet," he hissed at Jackson. "Keep your eyes down when the Lady speaks to you!"

"No need," T'Var said dryly. "I rather prefer to look at the people I speak with."

Her hard expression softened a little as she met Jackson's eyes. "You are a friend?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, Trip's my friend." Jackson glanced at Malcolm. "And Malcolm, too."

"How dare you use human names in front of the Lady!" The overseer raised his whip. "You-"

"You will desist!"

At her tone, the overseer immediately lowered his hand and took a step back. "I beg forgiveness, Lady, but-"

"What is going on here?"

Malcolm turned his head. Aylak was coming towards them, followed by the foreman who looked as if he wished for a hole to open up and swallow him. The frown on Aylak's round face turned into an expression of surprise when he became aware of T'Var.

"Lady T'Var! I thought my foreman hadn't caught your name right."

"I am here, Aylak," she replied. "And I am very interested in how you explain all this." Her gesture included the entire production hall.

Aylak stared at her. "I am not sure I can follow, Noble Lady."

"Indeed." T'Var's voice was cold. "Let me explain it to you then, Aylak. There are authorities who would be very interested to find out about your safety precautions – or should I say, the lack thereof," she added. "And assuming someone took pictures of this place and sent them to the media... I daresay many citizens would be disturbed to see how you are treating your workers."

"Those workers are my property, Lady, as is everything else in here." Aylak drew himself to his full height. "How I run my factories is no one's business but my own."

"Is that so." T'Var's eyebrows twitched; the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. "Well, I will leave it to you to explain to the media why your workers are malnourished to the point of starvation, and chained to the machines when they are hardly able to stand."

Aylak licked his lips. "Are you threatening me, Lady?"

"Do you feel threatened, Aylak?"

He paused. "What do you want?"

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "I want nothing from you, Aylak. I have come to take these two men with me," she indicated Trip and Jackson, whose eyes grew wide. "You shall receive a sufficient compensation in due time. That will be all."

Aylak's face seemed to swell with anger. "Lady, if you think you can march in here and just take two of my workers- "

"Yes, Aylak?" she asked, very quietly. "If I think I can do that, then what?"

The Vulcan's two chins were quivering with fury, but he seemed unable to think of an appropriate comeback.

T'Var ignored him and turned to Malcolm. "I believe it is time we took your friend out of here."

"Yes, _T'Sai_."

She turned to the human overseer. "Unchain this man."

The man glanced at Aylak, who moved his hand in a quick, cutting gesture. "Do as she says, idiot."

Ass Kisser, as Jackson had so aptly called him, hurried to obey. As soon as Trip's ankle was free of the cuff, Malcolm grabbed the chain and tossed it aside. With Jackson's help, he moved Trip into a sitting position and wrapped one of Trip's arms around his shoulders. Jackson did the same with the other arm, and soon they were on their feet, Trip hanging between them like a limp rag doll.

"I take it you are leaving, Lady?" Aylak asked.

T'Var ignored his sarcasm. "Indeed I am, Aylak. Good day to you."

Aylak said nothing, his fat hands balled to fists. For a moment or two, he stood in silence, then he turned around and glared at the workers at the surrounding machines, who were staring wide-eyed at the strange old lady and her little entourage.

"What are you looking at, _pau'kaluku_? Get back to work!"

To Malcolm's surprise, none of them did. They continued to stare at T'Var, trying to catch her eyes, and suddenly he realized that they were begging. The rich lady had taken two of their fellow slaves for no apparent reason, so why shouldn't she purchase a third, or a fourth?

"_T'Sai_," one of the men they passed stepped closer and touched her sleeve. "Please, I – I'm a friend of his, too!" He pointed at Trip. "I shared my rations with him. Please, _T'Sai_!"

"I am sorry," T'Var said quietly. The fierceness of before had left her voice, and she looked old and sad. "I cannot help you."

The man lowered his head, stepping back. A moment later, he was pushed back to his work station by the overseer.

"Leave the Lady alone, _pau'kaluk_! Back to work!"

Malcolm could have sworn that he had seen a wet glint in T'Var's eyes. She said nothing, and did not look at anyone as the four of them left the production hall, stepping into a mild summer day.

TBC...

This was one of my favorite chapters to write (I know, I know, but it wasn't just the whumping :) – I love Malcolm-to-the-rescue! ), and I'd really like to know what you think of it! Thank you!


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

17

_Doctors_, Malcolm thought. Some things seemed to be truly universal, and the medical profession was one of them.

Healer Sten, First Physician of the House of Sreman, muttered, frowned, fussed, muttered some more and produced a sound that reminded Malcolm of Phlox clucking his tongue over a patient. An elderly man with gentle eyes, Sten didn't seem to care whether the patient he was treating was human or Vulcan.

"Healer?" T'Var prompted, after the clucking and fussing had gone on for several minutes. "Do you believe he will recover?"

Sten glanced up from his hand scanner. "He will, but it is going to take time. This man owes you his life, Lady. Had he remained where he was, he would have been dead in another day or two."

Remembering how the overseer had brought his whip down on the semiconscious man, Malcolm doubted that it would have taken that long. Jackson was right; they had been about to kill Trip.

"I will administer an antibiotic to fight the bacteria in his blood," Sten continued. "As for the foot, I am going to remove the dead tissue and clean the wounds. If they do not show any signs of healing within the next two days, I will have to remove the amputation stumps as well."

Malcolm looked at the propped-up foot. The stumps were almost black, the raw flesh surrounding them red and swollen. It was hard to believe that Trip had still been able to walk at all.

Calmly, Sten began to work, administering an IV line before he started to excise the necrotic skin from the stumps. Malcolm saw Jackson wince in sympathy. The young man had been quiet since they had arrived at the House of Sreman, and Malcolm guessed that he was intimidated in spite of himself. He knew from their time in Silak's holding pen that Jackson had worked on a farm since he was nine, and had never left the place until he ran away at the age of twenty-five. The House of Sreman must seem like a palace to him.

Unsurprisingly, many of the servants had immediately looked down on the two newcomers. There had been contemptuous glances, remarks about "factory fodder", and relieved looks from Malcolm's bunkmates when T'Var assigned him, Trip and Jackson their own sleeping chamber. Now they were quartered in a room hardly larger than Malcolm's cabin back on Enterprise, which Malcolm didn't mind at all; as long as they were on their own, it would be far less difficult to engage in extracurricular activities – for example, working on the probe.

"Hand me that swab." Sten was looking at him, and Malcolm quickly handed him the requested item.

"Thank you," Sten said, a smile touching his voice. "Do not be scared. Your friend is unconscious, and I have administered a local analgesic. Something to numb the nerves in his toes," he added, mistaking Malcolm's silence for ignorance. "He does not feel a thing."

Malcolm didn't point out that he had known that before. "Yes, _S'haile_."

Sten began to dab the infected wounds with a sharp-smelling ointment. "May I ask, Lady, how he came to be in this condition?" He frowned at the welts and cuts scattered over Trip's torso. "I do not believe that the Family of Sreman would punish their servants like this."

"He and his friend belonged to Aylak," T'Var replied. "The conditions in his factories are abominable."

Sten's mouth thinned. "It is a shame that such goings-on should be tolerated in our community."

"Indeed. I plan to send a public protest to Central Administration, and request that the health and safety department investigate the factories. I would be most grateful for your support, Healer."

"I shall be glad to make a statement." The Healer set the bottle and swab aside and reached for a roll of bandage. "I hate to see these poor creatures treated with such cruelty. They need understanding and logical guidance, not this." Disgusted, he indicated the cuts and bruises. "So many of us do not realize that respect and obedience is not won through violence."

Behind Sten's back, Malcolm exchanged a look with Jackson, who rolled his eyes.

"Maybe we should strive to win their cooperation, not their obedience," T'Var said quietly. "I am sure it would be far more rewarding in the end."

Sten raised an eyebrow at her. "An unorthodox idea. But you may be right. The system as it is now is detrimental to both our people." He wrapped the last end of the bandage around Trip's foot and fastened it with a clip. "I will come back tomorrow to check the wounds. In the meantime, he will need antibiotic injections every five hours. If you do not mind taking care of it, Lady..."

"I do not mind at all," T'Var said with a small smile. "However, I believe that his friends are fully capable of administering the injections. Just show them what to do."

"As you wish, Lady. Here," the Healer handed a hypospray to Malcolm. "Adjust it to five milligrams for every new injection. This button refills the cartridge, and this one releases the medication into the bloodstream. I trust you have seen a Healer handle one of these before, so it should not be too difficult. If you are not sure what to do, I am sure Lady T'Var will be glad to assist you."

Malcolm suppressed a twinge of annoyance at the Healer's patronizing tone. "Yes, _S'haile_."

Sten set a box of swabs and a tube onto the floor next to Trip's cot. "For the cuts," he said as a way of explanation. "I have treated them with the derm restorer, so there should be no bleeding. Be careful when you administer the ointment."

"Don't worry," Jackson said quietly. "We've got a lot of practice treating whip wounds. _S'haile._"

The last word was added like a careless after-thought, and the tone was anything but deferential. The old Healer turned to look at Jackson, the expression on his face sad rather than angry.

"I am sorry, child."

Jackson didn't reply, and the Healer rose with a sigh, reaching for his bag. "I shall return tomorrow morning to have a look at him."

T'Var followed him to the door. "Thank you, Healer. We are most grateful for your help."

As soon as the door had closed behind the two Vulcans, Jackson spat on the floor. "Bats! They think they're so smart."

Malcolm said nothing, reaching for the tube and the swabs Sten had left. The pungent smell of the ointment filled the small room as he began to dab it on the raised welts and cuts on Trip's chest. Those on the back would have to wait until Trip was conscious and could sit up on his own. Malcolm didn't want to risk moving him around too much, for fear of jostling the freshly dressed wound.

After a while, Jackson came over to sit on the cot next to Trip's. "Never seen anyone move so fast."

Malcolm glanced up. "I'm sorry?"

"When you attacked that overseer. It looked as if you were a trained fighter."

Malcolm bent back down to his task. "I am," he said. "I'm the Armory Officer and Security Chief back on our ship."

Jackson laughed a little. "Right, the human ship. Trip mentioned it too, back at the factory. What is it with that story?"

"It's true," Malcolm said simply.

"Course it is." Jackson snorted. "You're the Armory Chief, and I suppose Trip's the Captain, then. Any other members in your crew, or was it just the two of you on your Terran battle-cruiser?"

"Chief Engineer, actually," a hoarse voice said from the cot. "An' it's a starship, not a battle-cruiser. Told ya that."

"Trip!" Malcolm turned back to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Trip blinked. "Better, I guess." He paused for a moment, a far-away expression in his eyes as he continued. "I... I thought I was hallucinatin'. When you, you know, went for Ass Kisser..."

"He broke his nose," Jackson interjected with a grin. "Would've broken his neck if the other overseers hadn't stopped him."

Trip managed a crooked smile. "Really?"

"I suppose I got somewhat carried away."

"Too bad I missed it." Trip's eyes traveled over the cramped room, the sparse furniture and the barred window before returning to Malcolm. "Where are we?"

"The House of Sreman. I was brought here shortly after you were gone." Malcolm paused, not sure how the engineer was going to take the next part. "One of the Vulcans here, Lady T'Var, is a secret follower of Surak. She got you out of the factory."

If Trip had intended to answer, he was cut short by Jackson. "Got us out! You mean she bought us."

"She did it to help you," Malcolm said quietly.

Jackson's scarred upper lip curled into a snarl. "Help us, right. And next thing she's gonna put one of those things on us – " he pointed at the collar on Malcolm's neck – "just to help us, right? You're even more naive than I thought, _Krintu_."

Malcolm whipped around. "Look, do you really believe that I'm here because I want to be?"

Jackson shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not the one who's suddenly friends with the bats."

Beneath the man's all-too-openly displayed anger, Malcolm sensed something else, something that made him bite down on his retort. Jackson hadn't thrown the offer of rescue back into T'Var's face, had opted to swallow his pride and escape Aylak's hellhole of a factory. His dignity, of course, had come away in tatters, and dignity was about the only thing he really had.

"Guys," Trip said quietly from his cot. "Don't. We're all tryin' to survive here, right?"

Jackson was the first to lower his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."

"It's alright," Malcolm said, avoiding Trip's eyes. Justified or not, Jackson's remarks had hit a little too close to home. For all her dissident views, there was no denying that T'Var was a slave-owner, someone who owned a household of sentient beings as if they were mere commodities. It was one of Starfleet's first "contact guidelines": There was to be no contact or cooperation with slave-owning species, and if contact could not be avoided, it was to be kept to a minimum. Diplomatic relations were not to be encouraged.

_Not to be encouraged._ The sort of phrasing that was so typical of paperpushers, people who hadn't been past Lunar Station in their entire life. Ironic, in a way, that it was the same committee who had thought up the anti-fraternisation rules.

"Malcolm."

Trip's hand touched his arm, and Malcolm wondered just how much of his thoughts had shown on his face.

"I owe you one. Another one," the engineer added, his cracked lips forming a wry smile.

Malcolm frowned. "Another one?"

"Does draggin' my butt out of a sinking shuttlepod ring any bells?"

"Right." Malcolm smiled back, touched and embarrassed by the expression in Trip's eyes. "Well, you would have done the same thing for me."

Jackson shook his head. "You're not making this up, are you? You really believe there's a human starship."

"Actually, I do." Malcolm smiled. "And I've got reason to assume that they're still out there looking for us."

Trip tried to sit up on his cot. "What?"

"Enterprise sent a probe, Trip. One of the Vulcans here is a scientist, and her team picked it up at a beach close to our crash site. I had a look at it last night. I'm sure it's from Enterprise."

Trip's tired face became alight with excitement. "They found a way to cross the barrier?"

Malcolm nodded. "At least they found a way to get the probe through. They seem to have used some extra hull reinforcement..."

"Some sort of alloy might do the trick." Trip frowned, and Malcolm was glad to see some of the old sparkle returning to his eyes. The engineer had seemed so... lifeless, back at the factory; as if his mind had already embarked on a journey, and was only waiting for his body to follow.

"... would have to use in-built thrusters to stabilize it, if they didn't want it to crash like the shuttlepod."

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, unless they found a way to re-route the power surge."

"Wait a minute." Something in Jackson's voice made them both fall silent. The young man narrowed his eyes at them. "I swear, if this is some sort of idiot joke..."

"No joke." Trip smiled at him. "I can't wait to get a look at that probe."

Jackson nodded slowly. "In that case, you might be interested in these." He reached under his shirt, and pulled out a bundle of rags. As he laid it down on Trip's blanket, the bundle fell open.

Malcolm stared. "Where did you get these?"

"Snuck them out of the foreman's toolbox when no one was looking. I was going to use them to pick the lock on the door to the production hall."

Trip picked up a slender tool that reminded Malcolm of a microspanner. "Wish I'd thought of that," he said. "These are great. Thank you."

Jackson grinned self-consciously. "Yeah, well, it's Ass Kisser's own fault for picking on you all the time. He never noticed that I'd left my work station."

A shadow crossed Trip's face at the mention of the overseer, and Malcolm reached for the tools. "Better hide those. T'Var promised to get the probe down here, but we can't risk anyone else finding out. Especially not the other servants," he added before Trip or Jackson could say anything. He wrapped up the bundle and slipped it under Trip's mattress. "There, that should do."

Trip nodded. "Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure we can trust her?" Trip's eyes were serious.

Malcolm didn't hesitate. "I'm sure," he said.

* * *

T'Pol could smell the tension on the bridge. Human body odor changed with anxiety or excitement, turning from a mildly unpleasant scent into a pungent smell, strong enough for her to detect even with the nasal numbing agent. Not for the first time, she was glad that it was Ensign Sato sitting closest to her on the bridge; compared to that of her male colleagues, Sato's odor was fairly tolerable.

"T'Pol?"

"The probe is maintaining its course, Captain."

A rather unnecessary statement, she conceded, as the probe's recordings were transmitted directly to the main screen. The stars disappeared one by one as it approached the planet, until the blue surface filled the entire screen.

"Two seconds until it enters the anomaly." she announced. The humans tensed, and even Mevak and Halan straightened a little in their chairs. T'Pol routinely suppressed her own twinge of excitement. Logic dictated that they would not encounter any major difficulties this time.

"Entering now."

Colors exploded like a miniature nuclear bomb. Magnetic lightning flashed across the viewscreen, filling the bridge with unearthly light. Ensign Sato raised a hand as if to shield her eyes.

"It's a lot brighter this time."

"Indeed." T'Pol checked her readings. "It appears that the electromagnetic charges interfered with the recording component of the first probe. The image we are seeing now is a far more accurate depiction."

Archer cut in. "Any problems so far?"

"None, sir," Halan announced from Tactical. "The hull reinforcement is absorbing the charges."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the humans, and even T'Pol couldn't deny a certain satisfaction. Ensign Mayweather had called the probe their "guinea pig", which was an eccentric but accurate description of the situation. The probe's fate would decide whether it was safe to cross the barrier with a manned shuttlepod.

"It is passing the vortex," Mevak reported. "The hull reinforcement is still intact. I do not believe that we will have to fire the thrusters this time."

The image wobbled slightly, then tilted as if someone had suddenly changed the angle of the camera. As suddenly as it had disappeared, the planet's surface filled the screen again.

"All systems are stable," Halan said. "We are approaching the atmosphere."

Clouds parted as the probe resumed its course, "as if nothing had happened", a human might have said. Nothing about the planet suggested that this was, in fact, not the same world Enterprise was orbiting.

"We have exited the anomaly at approximately the same coordinates as last time, Captain." T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "It seems that your metaphor was quite accurate. The "doorway" always leads to the same place."

Archer smiled at her, and she noticed that some of the tension had lifted from his expression.

"I'd say we follow the same course we took last time. If the phase pistol was any indication, that's where they went ashore after the crash."

Steered by Halan, the probe left the last layer of clouds behind and headed towards the mass of land in the distance. Turquoise waves crested with foam washed towards the shore, glittering in the sunshine. Suddenly a flash of white flitted by, its shape suggesting a maritime avian.

"A seagull!" For some reason, Sato seemed delighted by the bird's appearance.

Halan raised an eyebrow. "You recognize the species?"

"Not really," Sato explained with a smile. "It just looked like a seagull to me."

T'Pol checked her readings. "Its anatomy does resemble that of a Terran seagull in some ways. The scans indicate a large colony of these beings close to the shore."

"Any other bio signs?" Archer wanted to know.

"Only small fauna."

The probe had reached the shore, slowly gliding along the silvery strip of sand that was the beach.

"Maybe we should go a bit lower," Mayweather suggested.

Archer nodded at Halan, who altered the probe's course so that it descended several dozen meters, sweeping across a blue forest of feathery trees.

"Take us further inland," Archer said.

The probe changed course again, leaving the beach behind. The landscape below resembled many of the Minshara-class planets they had encountered before, wide stretches of jungle alternating with vast fields and the occasional stream. T'Pol returned her attention to her console, and could not suppress a small frown when a new set of data appeared. This was... unexpected.

"Subcommander." She turned to Halan. "Change course due south. Stay close to the tree level."

Archer was at her console in a few steps. "Have you found them?"

"No, Captain. There are-"

"Sir!" Mayweather interrupted, and Archer turned around.

The scenery on the viewscreen had changed again. There was an assembly of buildings, obviously a farming institution, surrounded by fields and enclosures with grazing cattle. Small, airborne vehicles flitted about the place, some laden with field crops, some on their way to a nearby forest. Groups of people, small dark silhouettes in the distance, worked on the fields, one of the vehicles hovering close to each group. Like a bird of prey, T'Pol thought, rather illogically. Something about the place seemed odd.

"T'Pol?"

"There are 151 bio signs in the vicinity of the buildings," she said, aware that all eyes on the bridge had turned to her. Two words appeared next to the head count on her screen, and for the second time in as many minutes, T'Pol found herself hard-pressed to hide her surprise.

"What is it, T'Pol?" Archer wanted to know.

Unexpected, indeed. "These people are not aliens, Captain."

"What do you mean?"

T'Pol raised her head. "They are humans and Vulcans."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 18

Thank you for letting me know what you think, and Happy Easter to all of you who celebrate it!

* * *

18

"Here."

A pile of _fori_ tubers was thrown on the table, and Malcolm reacted instinctively, catching them before they could fall on the floor.

Yonakh grinned in response to his glare. "These have to be finished before the evening meal. Oh, and when you're done, seed the _pla-savas_ over there." He indicated two baskets of fruit. "Better get a move on."

Malcolm had resolved himself not to let them get to him, but the man's smug expression was suddenly too much. "I believe Yumur told you to do that."

Yonakh shrugged. "So?"

"So do it yourself."

The man's grin faded. "Better be careful, Krintu. I don't take shit from bed warmers like you or your buddies."

Malcolm threw the paring knife onto the table and got up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on. Why else would the Family allow filth like you to be brought into this house?" Yonakh sneered. "Bet you're really good at it, too. Where were you before, anyway, one of the city brothels? I hear the wealthy in town get off on pretty boys like-"

Malcolm grabbed the man's tunic, and was about to slam him into the wall when a hand closed on his shoulder.

"Krintu! Let him go, or I'll send you both to the Correction Room!"

Malcolm let go of Yonakh, pushing him slightly so that he stumbled into the table. He still ached to land a punch in the man's face.

"Stop it." Yumur frowned at them both. "Yonakh, go take care of the _pla-savas_ like I told you. And I'd better not find any seeds in the bowl when you're done."

Behind the First Cook's back, Yonakh flipped Malcolm the finger before he shuffled off to do as he'd been told. Malcolm ignored him, as he knew he should have done in the first place. The man's insults weren't new to him. Jackson, who had been assigned to work in the gardens, had told him that slaves on the lower scale of the hierarchy were considered fair game to all intents and purposes, by their masters and fellow servants alike. To say that it didn't make things easier would have been the understatement of the century.

"Krintu, you won't be serving the Family today. Finish the _fori_, then go and ask Tehkur for cleaning utensils. The hallway in front of the library needs mopping."

"Yes, First Cook."

She left, and Malcolm sat back down to his work, gripping the knife a little harder than necessary. Stupid. He shouldn't have reacted to Yonakh's taunts at all. Tactically, they were in a vulnerable position, with Trip still not well and the probe hidden under his bed in the sleeping chamber. It was unlikely that anyone would miss it, after T'Per had agreed to give it to T'Var for "research", but they couldn't afford to draw too much attention to themselves. If anyone found out, the consequences would be extremely unpleasant.

The good news was that Trip was recovering, albeit slowly. In the five days since he and Jackson had arrived, the engineer hadn't talked much to anyone, but he had used every unobserved moment to take out Jackson's stolen tools and tinker with the probe's charred interior. There had been no signs of a functioning signal so far, but Malcolm was confident that, in time, Trip would find a way to restore the device. He always did. In the meantime, it was Malcolm's job to keep him safe, which, under the circumstances, might turn out to be a walk on a very thin tightrope.

Finishing the last of the tubers, he wiped off the paring knife and got up. There was a sudden hush in conversation as he passed the adjoining work table, heads and eyes quickly turning away. He knew they were talking about him, huddled in a group while he had been sitting on his own. He ignored them.

"Ma'am?"

Yumur surveyed the pile of neatly pared vegetables and nodded curtly. "You can go. Come back here when you're done cleaning. I'll have them prepare dinner for you and your friends."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He was on his way to the door when she called him back. "Krintu."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Your friend, the sick one. Is he getting better?"

Malcolm nodded cautiously.

"Good. He can start in the kitchen when he's well enough to work again. I need a dishwasher."

It was all she said, and Malcolm paused briefly before he replied. "Thank you, ma'am."

She gave him the slightest of nods, and Malcolm held her eyes, nodding back. By slotting Trip into the kitchen work schedule, Yumur had effectively prevented that he would be assigned as a "personal servant" to any of the Vulcans as soon as he was feeling better. Although he had never mentioned it to Trip, the prospect had weighed heavily on Malcolm's mind.

Tehkur, the elderly janitor, handed him a bucket and a mop, grumbling that the floor had better be sparkling when he came to check. Malcolm hardly listened. He had a feeling that the hallway in front of the library didn't need cleaning any more than the rest of the house; the assignment seemed more about getting him out of the kitchen than anything else.

Sure enough, he found T'Var waiting in front of the large, wooden double doors that led to the library. Her crinkled face brightened when she saw him.

"Malcolm. I was wondering if the First Cook would be able to spare you for a while." She lifted an eyebrow. "I hope she won't be too displeased with your absence. From what I have heard, it would be an unwise move to incure her wrath."

Malcolm set down his bucket. "Actually, I don't think she minds."

T'Var's amusement faded. "Has there been another incident?"

Malcolm shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Just a misunderstanding, I suppose."

"I see." T'Var sighed. "Maybe your friend shouldn't be assigned to the kitchen, after all."

It was only now that Malcolm realized Yumur had been acting on T'Var's orders. "We'll be all right. Thank you," he added, knowing he didn't have to explain. Even the most menial of work was far more preferable than the "duties" of a personal servant.

T'Var's face had grown somber. "I wish there were more I could do."

"You are doing a lot," Malcolm said quietly. He didn't like the sadness that seemed to cloud her features so often of late. T'Var was eager to learn every detail about the universe on the "other side", as she called it, and yet everything he told her seemed to pour salt into an open wound. The more she learned, the more her own world was beginning to look like an ugly, distorted image of the universe that should have been, and he knew it pained her that all her efforts couldn't change the way things were.

She sighed. "Not enough, it seems. The administration called me this morning. They are not going to close Aylak's factories, after all."

Malcolm knew that she had pulled every string available, even greased a few palms to draw attention to the hellish conditions in Aylak's production plants, but no one had been very interested. He didn't tell her that he had expected no different. "You tried everything you could."

She inclined her head. "And I have no intention of stopping. I will not accept the situation as it is."

Malcolm could think of nothing to say in reply, and settled for a mere nod as he dipped the mop into the bucket. Changing things would be a long and laborious process, if it could be done at all, and all he really wanted was to return to the world where he belonged. But he wasn't going to tell her that.

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he looked up from his work. To his surprise, T'Var was smiling at him.

"I am sorry, Malcolm. I did not mean to burden you with an old woman's melancholy. In fact, I arranged for you to come here because I wanted to give you this."

She handed him a bundle of cloth. Under the fabric, he could feel the outlines of something small and square.

"I went to see your friend this morning," she said quietly. "He mentioned that he would need something to "boost the signal". I am no engineer, but I believe this might be useful to him."

Malcolm unfolded the fabric, taking a sharp breath when he saw what the bundle contained. "An amplifier chip!"

And a high-quality one, too. Malcolm looked back at T'Var.

"Thank you." He wanted to say more, but the words got caught in his throat. She might have just handed him the key to contact Enterprise.

"I hope it helps," was all she said. She seemed to understand. "Tell your friend to be very careful."

Malcolm nodded. "I will."

T'Var reached for her crutch. "Well, I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me now; I have promised my great-grandson that I would meet him for a game of _kal-toh_." She paused. "I would appreciate it if we could continue our conversation some time soon."

Malcolm nodded. There was still a lot to be told about the world on the "other side", and he knew how important it was for her to know every single detail. "I'd like that, _T'Sai_."

Her eyes crinkled in an almost-smile. "Good."

Malcolm watched her leave, his hand closed tightly around the small bundle in his pocket. Excitement bubbled in his stomach, and it was all he could do not to drop everything and hurry downstairs to see Trip right away. If this worked, they might have a real chance, something he hadn't allowed himself to believe for a while now.

"Well, well, what a surprise. You're actually here."

The unexpected voice startled Malcolm. He turned around to find Yonakh standing there, a sneer on his broad face.

"I didn't think Yumur really meant for you to mop the floor when she sent you up here."

"Thinking's not your strongest suit, is it?" Malcolm turned away and resumed his mopping. He wasn't going to waste any time letting this idiot bait him into another fight.

"Very funny, asshole."

Malcolm reached out to grab the bucket, but it was too late. Water and foam spilled on the floor, soaking his feet.Yonakh grinned in satisfaction and gave the bucket another kick for good measure.

"I'm gonna get you one of these days, Krintu. You better remember it."

It was an enormous effort not to grab the man and push him face first down into the wet mess, but Malcolm resisted the urge. The last thing he needed right now was to be sent to the Correction Room for brawling in the hallways.

"Get lost, Yonakh."

The man seemed almost disappointed at Malcolm's lack of reaction. "This isn't over, you know."

"Whatever."

Realizing that Malcolm wasn't going to be provoked into a fight, Yonakh stomped off, not without a last glare over his shoulder. "You better watch out."

Sighing, Malcolm knelt down to wipe up the mess, his thoughts soon returning to the bundle in his pocket. With any luck, he'd be able to slip away for a few minutes after Tehkur had inspected his work. He'd give the amplifier to Trip and return to the kitchen before anyone had noticed his absence. Malcolm smiled, thinking of the look on the engineer's face when he pulled out the chip.

It didn't take long until he had forgotten about Yonakh altogether.

* * *

"Report, T'Pol."

Archer's tone was curt, but T'Pol knew that his brusqueness wasn't directed at her. The senior crew, including Halan and Mevak, stood gathered around the console in the situation room, and for the first time, T'Pol understood why humans spoke of tension that could be cut with a knife.

Calmly, she began to speak. "Subcommander Halan and Ensign Mayweather have succeeded in bringing the probe close to the city, using a scan deflector to avoid detection. Scans indicate that it is a Vulcan colonist settlement with approximately two million inhabitants, human and Vulcan. Ensign Sato and I are working on a map of the surroundings."

"Is there any way we can scan for individual biosigns?" Archer wanted to know.

"The sensors of the probe have only limited range, and the signal is further distorted by the electromagnetic charges inside the "doorway". It is unlikely that we will be able to locate Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker by scanning for their biosigns, Captain."

"What if we took the probe inside the settlement?" Archer asked.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Doing so would increase the risk of detection by more than 70 percent."

"Is there a chance we could scan for their bio signs from within the city?" he repeated impatiently.

"It is possible, yes."

Another curt nod. "What else have you found?"

This time, Sato took over the report. "The probe has recorded several transmissions from within the colony, and we've managed to get close enough to get a few visual impressions." Her tone changed as she continued, and T'Pol realized that the young woman was struggling to suppress her emotions. "We're dealing with a slave society, Captain. Humans aren't only second-class citizens, they're seen as commodities."

A moment of silence followed, and for once, T'Pol found that she wasn't entirely immune to the emotions she sensed from her colleagues. For two hours, she and Sato had listened to Vulcans bartering humans as if they were buying and selling livestock, Vulcans planning raids to recapture runaway slaves, and it had become increasingly difficult to control her anger and disgust. It was illogical for her to feel responsible – these Vulcans were no more her people than they were Archer's or Sato's – and yet she couldn't deny the shame in what she had heard.

Archer was the first one to speak. "T'Pol, Hoshi, I want you to get as much data as you can on the colony. Administration, infrastructure, everything. Halan, Mevak, Travis, get to work on a way we can take the probe into the city without being detected. Maybe there's a park or some sort of-"

"Sir!" Müller called from Tactical. "I believe the probe's picking up a signal on a Starfleet frequency!"

Archer took the stairs to the tactical station in one bound. "Ensign?"

"I'm scanning the signature... it's from the first probe, Captain!"

"Put it on audio."

Müller's fingers flitted over his console. A moment later, a soft bleeping filled the bridge, a steady repetition of short sounds. Suddenly, Sato's eyes widened. "S-O-S! It's Morse code!"

The bleeping changed, and Sato's lips moved as she spelled out the coded letters.

"Ensign?" Archer urged.

"It's them, Captain." Sato smiled broadly. "The signal spells "Reed" and "Tucker". It's got to be them."

Archer closed his eyes for a moment, then his face broke into a smile. "I'll be damned."

"I've got the coordinates, sir," Müller announced. "The signal's coming from a building inside the city."

"Good work, Bernhard, Hoshi. Keep tracing it." Archer turned to his senior staff. "Seems like a change of plan is in order."

T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "Captain..."

"Yes, T'Pol?"

"Sir, with your permission, I would like to make a suggestion."

She hadn't estimated the odds yet, but she was confident that her idea would work. It was only logical.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	19. Chapter 19

I love getting your reviews! Okay, time to rescue our boys, I'd say...

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19

Malcolm pulled off his serving gloves and tossed them into the laundry hamper next to the door. As always in the early afternoon, the kitchen was bustling with activity, the clanking of pots and pans mingling with shouted orders from the cooks. Clouds of steam hung in the air, and it took him a moment to spot Trip among the chaos. The engineer was standing at one of the sinks scrubbing a large pot, his arms immersed elbow-deep in soapy water. Malcolm frowned, dodging fellow servers and harassed kitchen staff as he made his way across the room. Even at the distance, he hadn't missed the sweaty pallor of Trip's face.

"Hey." Trip raised his head when he saw him. "You done?"

Malcolm nodded, becoming more concerned when he saw the way Trip was leaning heavily against the sink. "Are you all right?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah. Bit hot in here."

Malcolm surveyed the large pile of dirty pots and pans someone had carelessly dumped next to Trip's workplace. A few feet away, two men and a woman were chatting casually, laughing at something. Their sinks were devoid of any dishes and gleaming clean.

Trip shrugged when he noticed Malcolm's look. "S'okay. They were done before I was, so they got to take a break."

Malcolm suspected that dumping half of their load on Trip's sink had something to do with it, but he said nothing. Trip was having a hard enough time as it was.

"Come on." He grabbed a chair and set it down next to the sink. "Sit down for a while. I'll take care of this."

Trip shook his head. "I've got it."

"Listen..." Malcolm rested a hand on his arm. "You shouldn't put too much strain on your foot. You've got to give it time to heal."

"Well, it's not as if the toes are gonna grow back, right?" Trip lifted the pot out of the foamy water and dropped it into the rinsing sink. "These guys already think I'm some sorta lowlife. I don't want them to think that I'm a slacker, too."

Malcolm sighed. "Will you at least let me rinse?"

"Knock yourself out." Trip shook his head. "Your mom and dad musta loved havin' you 'round the kitchen. With us, it was always a fight whose turn it was to do the washin' up."

Malcolm smirked as he reached for the rinsing hose. "Reeds never complain about their duties."

"Right." Trip lowered his voice. "So all those times you were belly-achin' 'bout official meetings and stuff were an exception to the rule?"

Out of habit, Malcolm glared at him, although he was secretly relieved to see the trademark grin on the other man's face. The engineer didn't talk about his time in the factory, but the memories haunted him like a shadow, clouding his expression whenever he thought that no one was watching. It was good to see a bit of his old spunk return.

"I never "belly-ache". If anything, I voice well-considered concerns."

"Sure ya do." Trip resumed his scrubbing, working in silence.

"It's been two days," he said after a while. "They should've picked it up by now, right?"

Malcolm directed a quick glance over his shoulder. "I suppose so," he replied quietly. "They'll need more time, though."

More time to come up with a plan, he added in thought. If they were still there. If the signal had shown up on their sensors. If there was a way they could attempt a rescue mission. None of which Malcolm was going to mention to Trip; it wasn't necessary. The engineer was well aware that the odds were anything but promising.

"You did a great job," he said instead. Fitting an amplifier chip into a fully functioning probe would have been tricky enough; Trip had had to work around charred circuitry with nothing but a few crude tools at his disposal, and yet he had managed to produce a signal in less than twenty-four hours. Malcolm, scraping together what little Morse he knew, had programmed the distress call, encrypting it so it could be picked up on Starfleet frequencies only. Or so he hoped.

"You too." Trip rested his foamy hands on the edge of the sink, sighing, before he picked up his work again. Malcolm lowered his eyes. If it didn't work, if Enterprise didn't come, there were preciously few options left to them. The sensor-equipped collars made it nearly impossible to escape from the house, let alone the colony, and even if they somehow managed to get away, there was nowhere for them to go. They'd still try, of course; better to hide in the jungle than to live out their lives skivvying for a bunch of Vulcans. Talk about Hobson's choice.

Reaching for the next pot to rinse, Malcolm suddenly became aware of a hush in the conversations around him, the usual loud chatter fading into quiet whispers. He turned around, and found the entire kitchen staff diligently bowed over their work; even Trip's fellow dishwashers were suddenly were very busy wiping their already sparkling sinks.

"_S'hailu_," Yumur greeted the two uniformed members of the house guard who had just entered the room. "How may we assist you?"

"House Intendant Sahriv wants to see two of your workers," the taller of the two Vulcans replied. Malcolm could feel the atmosphere around him tense.

Yumur took a deep breath. "May I ask why, _Osu_?"

"None of your business." The guard raised his voice. "Krintu, Mazhiv, step forward!"

Malcolm froze.

"Step forward, now! Move!"

A hand touched his arm, squeezed it lightly. Malcolm looked at Trip, who nodded once. Together, they slowly began to walk towards the waiting guards. Every pair of eyes in the room was on them, a fact Malcolm was only too aware of as he came to stand in front of the two Vulcans.

"Hands," the taller guard ordered, and it was only then that Malcolm saw the restraints. He hesitated. It wasn't standard protocol to shackle the servants who were taken to Sahriv for punishment.

A second later, he received a knock on the side of the head, and stumbled. "Now!" the guard barked, and this time Malcolm held out his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trip doing the same. The Vulcan quickly fitted two pairs of metal restraints on their wrists, the devices locking themselves automatically.

Malcolm's arm was grabbed hard enough to bruise. "Move!"

"_Osu_..." Yumur stepped forward again. "May I expect Krintu back for the evening meal? I'll need a server."

The shorter guard pushed her aside. "What you need is to keep your mouth shut, _pau'kaluk_. Get back to work."

The kitchen staff stared as they were marched towards the door. Malcolm caught Yumur's eyes and thought he'd seen a flicker of sympathy there, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe she was just annoyed that they would be a server short tonight.

He expected that they would be led upstairs to Sahriv's office, and so he almost stumbled when the guard roughly jerked on his arm, pushing him into a different direction.

"Over there."

"I thought you were takin' us to Sahriv," he heard Trip's voice behind him.

"Quiet!" the guard snapped.

Malcolm's heart was pounding as they were herded down another corridor and towards the stairs that led to the basement. Down there was nothing but a wine cellar, a row of holding cells and the Correction Room, and he seriously doubted that Sahriv was inviting them down for a nice glass of Vulcan vintage.

So they'd found out. In a way, Malcolm had known that from the moment he had seen the two guards enter the kitchen, but until now the truth of it hadn't really sunk in. The taller guard opened the door to the basement, revealing a flight of stairs lit only by a few weak, electric lamps. Malcolm felt something hard and knotty settle in his stomach.

_Door to Hades_, he thought, but it wasn't funny. The stone steps felt cold under his sandaled feet, and he could see his own breath forming a white cloud in front of him. Was there any way he could convince them that Trip had had nothing to do with it? He supposed that he could, if the engineer went along with it and kept his mouth shut. Which, of course, Trip would never do.

The hard thing in his stomach tightened. Could T'Var have anything to do with this? He refused to believe it. He had trusted her. She couldn't have played a game with him through all those weeks, only to frame him for an offense she couldn't even be sure he would commit. No, it couldn't have been her.

The guards led them down a dimly illuminated corridor, past the wine cellar and towards the row of barred holding cells. At the very back, there was a heavy metal door, and even though Malcolm had never been here before, he knew that this was the place euphemistically referred to as the Correction Room. From what he had heard, "torture chamber" might have been a more accurate term.

Trip's face was half-concealed by shadows, but what little Malcolm could see was pale and taut with fear. There was a thin film of sweat on the engineer's face, a painful reminder that Trip was far from recovered. There was no way he could go through this.

The guard pushed a panel on the wall to open the door. "Move!"

Malcolm stumbled as the Vulcan pulled him forward, and as a consequence was almost dragged the few steps across the threshold. Regaining his balance, he took a look around the windowless room. Its walls were bare and splattered with brown stains, as if the liquid had hit the surface with great force. He quickly drew his eyes away.

"Finally."

Malcolm raised his head. Sahriv was there, flanked by two Vulcans in official robes, a man and a woman Malcolm had never seen before. Their faces were set into hard lines. Next to them, on a small table, lay the probe; or rather, what was left of it. It seemed to have been all but ripped apart, its interiors turned inside out and broken into pieces.

Sahriv never even looked at him, speaking to the guards instead. "Where is the third one?"

"We've sent someone for him, _Osu._ He's being brought here as we speak."

Sahriv inclined his head. "Good. Have him taken to one of the cells. We are going to question these two first."

"Yes, _Osu_."

The guards left, the door closing behind them with an audible click. Before Malcolm even had a chance to assess the situation – three against two, with the additional hindrance of the restraints – the woman had stepped behind him and pushed him to his knees. Next to him, Trip was made to kneel down as well, held down by the Vulcan man who had his shoulder in a firm grip.

Malcolm tried to struggle to his feet again, only to receive a sharp blow between the shoulder blades that almost sent him sprawling on the floor.

"Computer, activate recording," Sahriv said, quite calmly and still not taking any notice of the two humans kneeling before him. "Interrogators present are Sahriv, House Intendant, as well as Officers Skonik and T'Mai of Colony Security. The two suspects are the legal property of the House of Sreman; ownership rights have been rescinded for the duration of the hearing. The suspects will be considered property of the colony until legal proceedings are over."

Sahriv came to stand in front of Malcolm and looked at him for the first time. "Do you understand what that means, human?"

Malcolm fought for his voice to sound calm. "My friends have got nothing to do with this. They didn't even know I was hiding something."

"Malcolm!" Trip sounded furious, but his protests were cut short by a blow to the head.

"How dare you!" Skonik gave him a push, and Trip would have fallen on his face if he hadn't caught himself with his bound hands. "Human speak," the officer said to Sahriv, ignoring Trip's struggles to get back into an upright position. "I thought you had your _pau'kaluku _trained better than that."

"We do," Sahriv replied. "But these two are obviously not the sort we usually purchase. A rather unfortunate choice on our part, I admit." He stepped in front of Malcolm. "So you are saying you stole this device and hid it in your sleeping chamber, and your two bunkmates knew nothing about it?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes."

Calmly, Sahriv turned to Trip. "And can you confirm this?"

"No," Trip said forcefully. "He's just tryin' to protect me."

"And your other bunkmate?"

"He didn't know what we were doin'," Trip replied, and Malcolm nodded. At least Jackson would be left out of this.

"They are lying, of course." The female officer, T'Mai, spoke for the first time. "We are wasting time, House Intendant. Humans will never tell the truth unless they have the proper motivation." She looked down at Malcolm, and the hate in her eyes was a stark contrast to the men's cool but controlled demeanor. "I've yet to meet a _pau'kaluk_ that didn't lie with every word coming out of its mouth."

"We shall see." Sahriv took something from the table, and Malcolm recognized the amplifier chip, scratched and bent as if it had been forcefully removed from its makeshift haltering. The House Intendant held it so they could both get a good look at it. "Did you install this in the device?"

"I did," Trip said before Malcolm had a chance to speak. "It was me."

"To what purpose?"

Silence followed. Malcolm fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, trying not to look at any of the stains. So the Vulcans hadn't picked up the signal; they'd merely found the probe and discovered that it had been tinkered with. One small bit of luck; at least they hadn't been able to decipher the distress call.

"To what purpose?" Sahriv repeated. "Tell me now."

Neither of them spoke, and the House Intendant straightened with a small sigh. "Very well then." He nodded at Trip. "Start with this one."

"No!" Malcolm tried to climb to his feet. "Could you ask Lady T'Var to come down here? She... she can explain."

He hadn't wanted to bring T'Var into this, and he had no idea how she would explain anything, but there was nothing else he could think of to say.

"Silence!" T'Mai grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back to his knees.

Sahriv eyed him coolly. "I see no reason to disturb Lady T'Var over this matter, and I doubt she has anything to say about it." He looked at T'Mai and Skonik. "Begin."

Malcolm tried to get to his feet again, and was backhanded across his face so hard that he fell onto the stone floor, blood trickling out of his mouth and nose. Through a daze, he saw them pull Trip to his feet and drag him over to the far side of the room where a chain hung from the ceiling. Skonik attached one end of it to Trip's restraints, then jerked sharply on the other end. Trip's arms were yanked up and over his head. Skonik kept pulling until Trip's toes barely touched the floor, then fastened the chain to a hook on the wall. Trip was dangling, his entire weight on his arms.

Malcolm wasn't sure how, but somehow he managed to struggle to his feet and towards the Vulcans. "Please," he said, aware that he was begging. He didn't care. "Please, he's been sick. Don't do this. I can-"

"Yes?" Sahriv looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You can do what?"

"Nothing," Trip said in a strained voice. He turned his head, an effort in his suspended position, and caught Malcolm's eyes, and what he saw on the pale face made Malcolm stop short. There was fear and pain in Trip's eyes, but also something else. Trip was trying to tell him that it was okay. "He's not gonna do anything."

T'Mai brutally drove her fist into his side. "Shut your mouth, idiot!"

"Leave him alone!" Malcolm knew that he was being stupid, didn't care. He stepped towards them, hands raised. "Let him-"

Something flew at him and connected with the side of his face, and this time he did pass out. As he came to, he was lying on the cold concrete again, his bound hands shackled to a ringbolt in the floor. His head felt as if it had collided with a sledgehammer. Blood was in his mouth and on his face, and he spat, leaving a foamy red puddle on the floor in front of him. There was something broken and white among the blood, and it took him a moment to recognize it as a tooth.

A sound like fabric being torn apart caught his attention. He tried to raise his head, which was difficult as his vision blurred with the movement. Trip, they were doing something to him, but he couldn't make out what it was. Blood was trickling into his eyes. He opened his mouth, wanted to tell them to stop whatever they were doing, and found that he couldn't talk. There was something in his throat, blood or saliva or maybe just the hard lump he'd first become aware of on the way down here, and it prevented the sound from coming out.

His surroundings slid into focus again, and now he saw that they had torn off Trip's tunic. The tattered garment was on the floor at the engineer's feet, looking of all things like a small, dead animal. Trip's skin stretched tautly over his ribs, every one of them clearly outlined, and the Vulcans said something about his old cuts, something about another dose of the same. Skonik was holding a whip in his hand.

No, Malcolm wanted to scream, but the obstacle in his throat was still there, and a dry, anguished sound was all that came out. The Vulcan swung the whip back, and there was a loud smack followed by a pained gasp. The force of the blow made Trip's body swing forward on the chain.

"... do not assume that you..."

Sahriv's voice, but Malcolm had no idea what he was saying. Skonik pulled back for another lash, and another, and each one reverberated in Malcolm's ears as if he'd been physically struck himself. He still couldn't talk, could hardly move. They were going to beat Trip to death in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.

"Why did you steal the device?"

Another blow, and this time, Trip cried out.

"Are you rebels?"

Blood was beginning to flow down Trip's back, soaking his pants.

"Were you going to contact them?"

Malcolm closed his eyes. He couldn't do this.

"The device, what did you need it for?"

Trip screamed again, more like a tormented animal than a human being, and suddenly the lump in Malcolm's throat was gone. His voice was rough, tears beginning to mingle with the blood on his face.

"Stop it. He's... he's not a rebel. Stop. I'll tell you."

The Vulcans turned around, looked at him. Malcolm took a deep breath, and began to speak.

* * *

TBC...

Okay, you probably didn't believe me, anyway –ducks away from the rotten vegetables- ... please let me know what you think :)!


	20. Chapter 20

Thank you for reviewing! You're right about the poor boys, they've been through so much... I think I'm going to have to write a lot of fluff to make up for this story ;)...

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20

"I... I needed the device to contact someone."

Sahriv frowned. "How did you know that it was a communication device?"

Malcolm glanced at Trip who was limply dangling from the chain, unconscious or close to it. He had to make them take him down, had to end this. Trip would never know what had happened. Malcolm wasn't even sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. His mind was rambling, and he knew he had to be quick, before he'd no longer make any sense at all.

"He didn't. I knew. He knows a little bit about technology, so I told him I wanted to contact my... my sister who lives on the other side of the colony. He did what I told him to do. He never knew..."

_Knew what? Knew that I was going to leave him all alone in this place after they execute me?_

"He never knew what?"

Sahriv nodded at Skonik, and finally, they unhooked the chain, letting Trip drop to the floor. The engineer slumped down in a heap, didn't move at all.

"Never knew what?" The Vulcan took a step closer, and Malcolm dragged his eyes away from the fallen man.

"He... he never knew I was going to contact... my friends." He tried to sit up as straight as he could with his hands chained to the floor, tried to put as much hate into his voice as he could muster. It wasn't hard. "You'll never find us. And you'll never know when we're going to strike, or where. We are many, and more are joining us every day. You'll never know when, but it's going to be soon."

He was tempted to add "death to Vulcan" or something similarly inane, hysteric laughter bubbling in his stomach. If he was going down, he might as well go down with all the dramatics. And they'd leave Trip alone. He'd invent an entire rebel planet if that was what they wanted. If they left Trip alone.

Sahriv's expression had hardened, his cool superiority gone. "What are you saying, human?"

"I'm saying that you'd better be prepared." They believed him, he could see that. "It's going to be soon."

T'Mai slowly began to walk towards him. Malcolm had never seen this kind of hate on anyone's, let alone a Vulcan's face, and shrank back despite himself as she approached.

"It was you, wasn't it? You piece of dirt, it was you!" He had no chance to dodge. Her bootclad foot struck his ribs, sending a sudden, piercing pain through his side. He curled up as well as he could to protect himself as her boots hit him again and again. "Dozens killed in their beds, slaughtered by your mob!" Her voice was strangled. "There were children there! Babies!"

"Officer T'Mai!" Sahriv's voice, sounding harsh and commanding. Slowly, Malcolm raised his head. Sahriv and Skonik had grabbed the Vulcan woman's shoulders, pulling her away from him. She was trembling, staring down at him as if she wanted nothing more than to see him bleeding and dying at her feet.

"Officer T'Mai," Sahriv repeated. "Must I remind you that this is an official interrogation?"

"He killed her." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "He killed my daughter. She was three months old. They'd thrown her on the floor... her forehead was smashed in when I found her..."

"Officer." Even through the haze of pain, Malcolm noticed the discomfort in Sahriv's tone. "We do not even know whether he is telling the truth. It is illogical to assume that he was responsible for any of the raids in the North Country."

"He doesn't care," T'Mai said. She seemed calmer now. "They do not even understand what it means to take a life."

Malcolm forced himself to meet her eyes. This was the first time he'd heard of insurgent humans raiding Vulcan settlements, of infants murdered, but it seemed that it had happened right here in the Jahsif Colony. He'd underestimated the Vulcans' fear of the rebels, maybe fatally so. God only knew what they'd do to him to find out about the "plans" he'd hinted at. He glanced over to where the engineer lay, still not moving. As long as they left Trip alone...

"Look at me, human." There was a strained undertone in Sahriv's voice that hadn't been there before. Malcolm raised his head, and found himself the focus of three pairs of dark eyes – two of them cool and contemptuous, one filled with hatred. "Are you telling the truth? Are you a rebel?"

Malcolm swallowed. If he said yes, he was dead, and if he said no... would they believe him? Would they torture Trip to force the truth out of him? Or would they concentrate on him, believing that Trip was just an uninformed dogsbody?

"Answer the question!" T'Mai stepped towards him, eyes narrowing. "Are you?"

Malcolm looked at her, and suddenly had his answer. As long as he did what he was doing right now – withholding the information they wanted – they'd be far too busy with him to remember Trip. He gave no reply, averting his eyes so she wouldn't see the fear in them. Better to have them think that he wasn't afraid, that he wanted nothing more than to die a martyr for the cause.

_Right. They'll find out the truth soon enough._

They would, Malcolm knew that. Trip had been right, a lifetime ago when they'd been trapped on Shuttlepod One with only a few hours of air left. Being a hero didn't suit him. Deep inside him, there was always coward Malcolm, and he'd resurface soon enough when they brought out the thumbscrews and red-hot irons, or whatever they were planning to use on him. In fact, he was scared out of his mind even at the prospect. But there was one thing he couldn't do, and that was stand aside and watch as they tortured Trip. It wasn't a question of courage. He just couldn't do it.

A fist grabbed his hair, forced his head up. "Are you a rebel?" T'Mai repeated quietly, dangerously. "Tell the truth!"

He took a deep breath, and spat a mouthful of blood at her feet. Her face whitened in anger. "You-"

"He's not," a quiet voice said from the other side of the room. "He's not a rebel. Neither of us is. He's lyin'."

Malcolm closed his eyes in despair.

"I'm not wasting any more time with this," he heard Sahriv's sharp voice. "Officer Skonik."

He felt hands grab him and push him down on his back.

"What are you doin'?" Trip's voice again. "Don't-"

Opening his eyes, he saw the flash of a blade, felt a stinging pain as it cut through the fabric of his clothes, its tip biting into his skin.

"No!" Trip yelled, and a far-away part of Malcolm's mind was aware that they must be about to do something really horrible, or Trip wouldn't scream like that. For some reason, though, he couldn't move away, couldn't even try to curl in on himself. He was completely numb.

His trousers were ripped off, and a hand closed painfully on his balls. "Now," Skonik said with a small derisive smile. "You've got exactly five seconds to tell us the truth. Then, I'm going to cut off the first one."

"No!"

Trip was crying, Malcolm realized, Trip never cried, he was "tough as nails", as Captain Archer had so eloquently put it-

"What is going on here?"

Malcolm turned to the voice that had come from the door – correction: the voice he'd thought had come from the door. It couldn't be, of course, and the person he thought was standing there couldn't be real. The truth was that he'd lost it, plain and simple. Not surprising, really, considering that he was about one second away from having his knackers chopped off with a Vulcan dagger.

Hysterical laughter rose in his throat, and they all looked at him as if he were a madman, Trip with his tear-streaked face, T'Mai, Sahriv and Skonik and the not-real person in the door. He couldn't help it. And if his marbles were starting to roll away, he was entitled to a little unprompted laughter, wasn't he?

The person in the door was the first one to move. Slowly, she stepped into the room, pushing her hood back as she spoke, and her voice, he noticed, her voice sounded very real indeed.

"I suggest you release this man immediately," T'Pol said.

* * *

TBC...

Surprised? Or not ;)? Anyway, I'm sorry this chapter is rather short; the next one will be longer again! Please let me know what you think!


	21. Chapter 21

Thank you for reviewing!

* * *

21

It was T'Pol, but a T'Pol who looked very different from Enterprise's sober-minded first officer. Her robe was long and flowing, of a dark, rich purple with silver emblems embroidered on the front. A thin silver band which encircled her head gave her an elegant, almost regal air. She seemed to take no notice of the two bedraggled humans on the floor, and fixated Sahriv with a haughty stare.

"I do not wish to repeat myself. Have your officer release this man, now."

Two Vulcans Malcolm had never seen before stepped up behind her. They were clad in heavy, dark green uniforms and helmets with military insignia, both holding S'Rahn class disruptors in their hands.

After a long look at T'Pol, Sahriv nodded at Skonik, who finally let go. Malcolm couldn't suppress a quiet groan; the Vulcan had gripped him hard enough to bruise, and his abdomen was still sore from T'Mai's kicks. Awkwardly, he sat up again, dimly aware that he was trembling all over. He wanted to cover his exposed private parts, but his hands were still shackled to the floor, and so all he could do was pull his knees to his chest and curl in on himself. Nausea roiled in his stomach.

"May I ask who you are?" Sahriv wanted to know, still eyeing T'Pol.

She met his eyes with an arrogant stare. "I am First Inquisitor T'Laera of the High Tribunal on Vulcan." Her tone implied that she was not used to having to introduce herself. "And to whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

"I am House Intendant Sahriv of the Noble House of Sreman. These are Officers Skonik and T'Mai of Colony Security. We are honored to welcome you in this house, First Inquisitor."

T'Pol surveyed her surroundings with disdain before her eyes returned to Sahriv. "I am certain your House is a credit to the Jahsif Colony," she said, raising a mocking eyebrow. "But I fear that I will have to decline your hospitality, House Intendant. I have merely come to retrieve something that should not have been here in the first place."

"I am afraid I do not understand." Sahriv stood stiffly, his face rigid. Her ill-concealed derision seemed to unsettle him, although he did his best to appear indifferent.

T'Pol waved a careless hand. A man Malcolm hadn't noticed until now, clad in an expensive servant's tunic, came forward and handed Sahriv a small padd. When the House Intendant took it, the man caught Malcolm's eyes as if by chance before he quickly looked away again. Malcolm blinked. The man in the servant's tunic was the Captain.

Sahriv scrolled through the information on the padd, a thin line appearing on his forehead. "An arrest warrant?"

"Indeed," T'Pol said calmly. "The two men in your custody are wanted criminals. They are responsible for the planning of several uprisings on Terra and the brutal slaughter of dozens of Vulcan settlers. Our security forces had arrested them once before, but they managed to steal a ship and escape." She raised an eyebrow. "I am... surprised that your administration paid no heed to our warnings about potentially dangerous runaways. Their descriptions were sent to all Vulcan settlements in the sector."

Sahriv seemed distinctly uncomfortable, and Malcolm remembered how the House Intendant had mocked Silak about interrogating potential rebels. T'Pol could not have picked a better scenario to put Sahriv on the defensive.

"There must have been a mistake," the House Intendant said with a side glance at T'Mai and Skonik.

"It is possible that we didn't receive the message, First Inquisitor," Skonik said respectfully. "Subspace communication isn't always reliable this far out."

"Be that as it may." T'Pol's tone implied that she found Skonik's explanation to be lacking in credibility. "These two men are on trial for high treason and murder. My orders are to take them to Vulcan so that they can be tried and punished for their crimes."

"Why don't _we_ take care of things?" T'Mai asked, reaching for the dagger on her belt. "I'd slit their throats right here and now. It's what they deserve."

"The High Tribunal will decide what they deserve," T'Pol replied calmly. "But you would be doing these humans a favor, Officer, if you granted them the mercy of a quick death. It is not what awaits them on Vulcan."

Had he been able to do anything except sit there and tremble, Malcolm would have admired T'Pol's acting talent. Every word out of her mouth spoke of contempt, both for Sahriv and the officers and the two beaten, bleeding humans on the floor.

"They stole a communications device a team of our scientists found in the South Country," Sahriv said. "They admitted that they were going to use it to contact other rebels."

T'Pol inclined her head. "There was another group heading towards this system with a stolen ship. A patrol ship caught them a few hours ago. We believe they may have intended to infiltrate the colony and incite another rebellion."

"And we will!"

All heads turned into Trip's direction. The engineer was trying to struggle to a sitting position, his bruised face a grimace of anger and hate.

"There are more of us, and we-"

"Silence!" T'Mai crossed the room in a few quick strides, and pulled her foot back to kick him when a sharp command from T'Pol stopped her.

_"Kroykah!"_

The officer turned around. "He's a murderer, First Inquisitor!"

"Your lack of control does you no credit," T'Pol said coolly. "This man needs to be in good condition for the interrogations. I doubt that you want to be responsible if he dies before we have extracted all the information he may be privy to."

"We're not traitors," Malcolm said, trying to put as much contempt into his voice as he could muster. The worst of the trembling had passed, and he was able to continue in a fairly steady tone. "You can kill us right away if that's what you're hoping for."

He noticed a look of surprise on Archer's face, and suddenly realized how odd it must seem to the Captain to hear their words translated into Vulcan. Over the past months, Malcolm had become so used to the subdermal translator that he no longer even noticed it.

If T'Pol was surprised, then she hid it well. She ignored Malcolm as if he hadn't spoken at all and turned to one of the Vulcan soldiers. "The communications device may serve as evidence. _Neksu..."_

"Yes, First Inquisitor." The Vulcan crossed the room and began to gather up the disassembled probe, stacking the parts into a box Malcolm recognized as one of the sample containers they used for away missions. Sahriv watched, obviously not happy with the way things were proceeding.

"Far be it from me to question your orders, First Inquisitor, but I need to remind you on behalf of the Family that these two men are the property of the House of Sreman. Surely we can expect compensation..."

T'Pol waved Archer forward again. "Will two thousand _lit_ be enough, House Intendant?"

She made the title sound like an insult rather than a respectful address.

"Of course," Sahriv replied sourly, aware of her contempt. "We thank you for your generosity, First Inquisitor."

Archer handed Sahriv several electronic currency chips. They'd come prepared for everything, Malcolm thought, the reality of what was happening beginning to sink in. They were doing it, they were getting out of here. Enterprise had received their distress signal. It was going to be okay. All of a sudden the nausea returned with a vengeance, and he found himself bent double, retching and heaving as his stomach emptied itself again and again.

"You're not so brave now, are you, _pau'kaluk_?" T'Mai's voice said somewhere over his head. "I hear they throw the likes of you to the _le-matya_ after cutting off your-"

"That will be enough." T'Pol's tone was hard, and Malcolm raised his head to find the two Vulcan women facing each other with an air of quiet fury. "I do not wish to witness another one of your childish outbursts, Officer. Your behavior is a disgrace to your House."

T'Mai obviously didn't dare respond likewise, and averted her eyes. T'Pol stared at her for another moment or two before she looked at Skonik. "Release the prisoners, Officer. We shall leave presently."

"What about the third one?" Sahriv wanted to know. "He could be involved in their plans."

Malcolm exchanged a look with Trip. They couldn't leave Jackson behind to be interrogated or worse.

"He's not," the engineer interjected quickly before Malcolm had a chance to say anything. "D'you really think we went around blatherin' to fuckin' anybody about how we were gonna blow up a bunch of fucking bats?"

T'Pol turned around at that. Trip's unusually coarse language had caught her attention, as had been intended.

"A third one?" she asked Sahriv. "Do you have another rebel in your custody?"

"Possibly," the House Intendant replied. "He was often seen in their company."

T'Pol considered for a moment. "Where is this man?" she asked finally.

"In one of the holding cells outside."

"Bring him here," she ordered one of the Vulcan soldiers. "If he is a rebel, the High Tribunal will have questions for him, too. Add another thousand _lit_ to the compensation," she said to Archer. "We'll take him with us."

"Fuck you, bitch!" Trip spat on the floor, and except for T'Pol, none of the Vulcans noticed that for a split second, he'd raised his thumb in a gesture of approval. "He's not gonna tell you anything."

Sahriv narrowed his eyes at Trip. "You will address the First Inquisitor in a respectful manner, _pau'kaluk_!"

"Do not trouble yourself on my account, House Intendant." T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Disciplining these barbarians is a waste of time. I shall be content to see them handed over to the authorities on Vulcan as soon as possible."

Sahriv seemed to take the hint and nodded at Skonik. "Release them."

The Vulcan officer removed the chain from Trip's restraints before he came over to unshackle Malcolm's hands from the ringbolt in the floor. "Get up," he ordered, grabbed Malcolm's arm and pulled him to his feet. "Move!"

Very aware that he was naked from the waist down, Malcolm tried to cover himself with his bound hands. His abused ribs ached fiercely, as did his bruised jaw, and he knew that his modesty was the least of his current worries, yet he couldn't help the embarrassment that warmed his face.

T'Pol had noticed. She nodded at Archer, who removed the long-sleeved jacket he wore over his tunic and proceeded to tie it around Malcolm's waist. Malcolm silently nodded his thanks, receiving a quick look of sympathy in return before the Captain's face slipped back into the rigid mask of the dutiful servant.

T'Mai had watched it all with an expression of disgust. "Why do you care?" she asked T'Pol. "Why protect filth like that?"

"I am not protecting anyone," T'Pol replied calmly. "But I, for my part, do not enjoy gazing at naked humans."

T'Mai flushed angrily at the implied insult and turned away. In the meantime, Skonik had pulled Trip to his feet. The engineer was hardly able to stand on his own, his knees giving way as he attempted to take a step forward. Archer was at his side in an instant, supporting him. T'Mai frowned but said nothing, unwilling to risk another rebuke from T'Pol.

"First Inquisitor." The Vulcan soldier had returned, leading a struggling Jackson into the room. "The prisoner you wanted to see."

Malcolm could see that Jackson was on the verge of panic and caught the man's eyes, trying to convey to him that it was going to be all right. Jackson obviously didn't take the hint. "W-what do you want? What's-"

"Our _enterprise_ has failed," Malcolm said, praying that Jackson would recognize the English word and not the Vulcan translation. "But our friends will take care of things."

It was fairly obvious, he had to admit, but neither Sahriv nor the officers seemed to find anything strange about his choice of words. "Your _friends_ have been caught, you idiot," T'Mai sneered. "Didn't you listen? No one is going to help you now."

Malcolm ignored her and continued to look at Jackson, who had ceased his struggling, fear and disbelief warring on his face. "Our-our friends?"

"Yeah," Trip nodded. "You know we've got friends out there."

Jackson seemed shocked, his eyes flickering from T'Pol to Archer and back to Malcolm, but he said nothing and didn't offer any resistance when the soldier led him to the door. The other soldier, who had slung the sample box with the probe over his shoulder, waved his weapon at Malcolm.

"Go."

Malcolm obeyed. His ribs ached with every step, and he couldn't seem to stop his cuffed hands from trembling uncontrollably. It seemed unreal, unlikely, that they were actually getting out of here. Maybe all of this was happening in his head while he was still passed out on the floor, felled by a blow from Skonik's fist. Never assume. Malcolm almost laughed at that. He'd assumed entirely too much in the past, had assumed that he could protect Trip, that they were safe when they weren't. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

The journey down the dimly lit hallway and up the stairs was slow, with Archer carrying most of Trip's weight. Twice, the engineer stumbled and would have fallen if the Captain hadn't caught him. As they left the stairs behind and stepped out into the hall, Trip swayed, his knees buckling as his strength deserted him. He collapsed in a heap on the floor, leaving smears of blood on the expensive carpet.

"Get up, you!" T'Mai reached for his arm to drag him back to his feet, but T'Pol stopped her.

"Leave him." She waved for the taller of the two soldiers to step forward. "_Neksu_, carry the prisoner. I do not want to waste any more time."

The Vulcan, a slender man with light brown hair, lifted Trip and hoisted him effortlessly over his shoulder. Malcolm noticed that he was taking care not to touch the engineer's cut and bruised back. As he watched, the smaller, dark-haired soldier met his eyes and inclined his head, as if trying to reassure him that he and his colleague meant no harm. Malcolm looked away.

"What is going on here?"

Malcolm turned around at the familiar voice. T'Var was coming towards them, leaning heavily on her wooden crutch as she limped down the hallway as quickly as she could.

"Where are you taking these men?"

"We've found out that they are criminals, Lady," Sahriv said. "First Inquisitor T'Laera is here to take them to Vulcan."

"First Inquisitor T'Laera?" T'Var's fierce, dark eyes narrowed to slits as she looked at T'Pol. "What have you done to them?"

"Nothing," T'Pol replied calmly. "Your House Intendant and these officers were in the process of interrogating the prisoners when the house guards directed me down to your Correction Room."

"Interrogating!" T'Var turned to Sahriv. "What is the meaning of this, House Intendant?"

"One of the kitchen slaves, Yonakh, discovered a stolen communications device in their sleeping chamber," Sahriv replied. Malcolm felt a flare of anger. Yonakh. He should have known that the man would try something. "They are rebels, Lady."

T'Var's eyes flashed cold fury. "I have told you before that we do not use torture in this house, Sahriv. You can be certain that I will discuss this incident with Lady T'Sia, and I doubt we shall be willing to keep a House Intendant who does not follow our rules. Now leave."

"Lady T'Var-"

"Leave!" She turned to Skonik and T'Mai. "You, too. Your superiors will hear from me."

Sahriv and the two officers obeyed with obvious reluctance. As soon as they were out of sight, the anger vanished from the ancient face.

"So," she said to T'Pol. "I knew you'd come."

T'Pol's eyebrows almost disappeared under her hairline. "I am afraid I do not understand."

"It's all right, Subcommander," Malcolm said. "Lady T'Var is on our side. She knows."

"Indeed I do," T'Var said. "I was monitoring the skies of the South Country when I noticed an unusual energy reading. I assume it was caused by your ship crossing the barrier."

"I hope no one else noticed," Archer said.

"I do not think so," T'Var answered. "Except for me, no one here has much interest in the phenomenon. If anyone noticed the energy reading, they will in all likelihood ignore it. I assume you are Captain Archer?"

Archer nodded, surprised. "Yes, I am."

"Malcolm and his friend have told me much about you. They never lost faith in you." She turned to T'Pol. "You must be Subcommander T'Pol."  
T'Pol inclined her head. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady."

"Not as honored as I am," T'Var said. "Seeing you here... I wish I could tell all of Vulcan about this. Our people and humans, working together as equals. There is a way to make it possible." She smiled a little. "But you must be on your way, not listening to an old woman's ramblings." She looked at Malcolm. "I wish you and your friend the best of luck."

Malcolm cleared his throat, not sure what to say to her. Of all the people they'd met in this place, she was the only one he would miss. "Thank you, T'Var... for everything."

"I thank you, Malcolm. Remember me, when you go to the place we talked about."

He nodded, aware that both T'Pol and Archer were eyeing him curiously. "I will. Goodbye, T'Var."

She raised her hand in the ancient greeting, her voice tinged with sadness as she answered. "Live long and prosper, my friend. Maybe, one day, we will do the same."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	22. Chapter 22

Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you liked T'Pol's part in the rescue!

* * *

22

"Almost there."

Archer's quiet words filled Malcolm with relief; he wasn't sure how much longer he could convince his legs not to give way under him. He said nothing in reply, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. When he felt Archer's supporting hand on his arm, he allowed the Captain to take some of his weight. It wasn't what he would have done under normal circumstances, but then, he could hardly remember what "normal circumstances" would look like. All he could think of was that they were getting out of here; that, and the danger of being detected.

With T'Pol leading their small procession, they'd left the premises under the eyes of the house guards, drawing curious looks from the slaves who worked in the gardens. Malcolm thought he'd seen a glimpse of sympathy on some faces, but he couldn't be sure. It might have been mere surprise at seeing a couple of lowly kitchen slaves and a garden worker marched off by a high Vulcan dignitary.

He noticed the Captain's eyes on him, watching him. Archer was trying, and failing, not to stare at the collar on Malcolm's neck. T'Var had deactivated the in-built sensors with her personal override, assuring them that nothing untoward would happen when they passed the gate, which was normally off limits for house servants. The look on Archer's face must have spoken volumes; it was one of the few times Malcolm had seen the old woman look ashamed.

Catching Malcolm's eyes, Archer quickly glanced away. "I'm sorry."

Malcolm wasn't sure if the apology was because he'd been staring, or because the Captain felt sorry for them. Probably both. What a sight they must look, bruised and beaten, their clothes torn, Trip slung over the Vulcan's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even worse, Malcolm couldn't think of a reply to give the Captain, anything to reassure him that it was all right. Somehow, the words just wouldn't come out. His hands were still trembling, and he focused on that, willing the tremors to stop. He didn't want the Captain to think he'd lost it, that he couldn't deal, that coward Malcolm was hiding in a corner with his arms over his head because it was all too much. He'd been fine when they'd talked to T'Var, well, maybe not fine but he'd managed, so why wasn't he now? Why were his legs wobbling as if someone had suddenly pulled the ground out from under his feet?

Strong hands caught him, and Malcolm realized that he must have stumbled.

"It's okay," Archer's voice said next to his ear, in a soothing tone as if he were talking to a frightened Porthos. "We're almost there. It's going to be okay."

Malcolm wanted to tell the Captain that he was fine, not to worry, but his mouth seemed to have forgotten how to formulate the words, so he merely nodded.

In the meantime, they'd left the wide avenue that led from the Sreman estate to the city, making their way into the woodlands that surrounded the gardens.

"There," Archer said, pointing ahead. Close to the edge of the woods, Malcolm could make out the outlines of a spacecraft, though quite obviously not one of Enterprise's shuttlepods; its design was sleek, the hull of a maroon color with the Empire's emblem on the side.

"We stole it at one of the farming outposts," Archer answered his unspoken question. "Didn't want to risk taking the shuttlepod too close to the city."

So that was why they hadn't wanted to land closer to the Sreman estate. Of course, the First Inquisitor wouldn't exactly arrive in an old and dented farming transport.

"This isn't your ship?"

Until now, Jackson had silently allowed his "guard" to lead the way, and had from time to time thrown nervous looks over his shoulder. Now he spoke up, his question directed at Archer rather than any of the Vulcans.

"No, it's not. We left our shuttlepod in the forest near the beach."

Jackson nodded curtly. For some reason, the information seemed to be of importance to him.

"Maybe Lieutenant Mevak should carry Mr. Reed, Captain," T'Pol said with a glance back at the estate they'd left behind. "It would be unwise to risk further delays."

Malcolm shook his head when the smaller of the two Vulcan men stepped towards him. "I can walk," he said. This time, the words came out easily enough. "I-I'll be fine."

He was, even though Archer carried most of his weight for the last twenty or thirty meters. His head swimming with dizziness, Malcolm watched as T'Pol opened the ship's front hatch and helped the taller of the two soldiers lift Trip inside. The Vulcan T'Pol had addressed as Mevak reached out to assist Jackson, but the young man pulled away, awkwardly steadying himself with his bound hands as he climbed inside.

"We'll get the handcuffs off you in a minute." Archer pulled the hatch shut behind them, taking something out of his ear which Malcolm recognized as a small UT earpiece. Hoshi's work, he supposed, so the Captain would be able to understand the Vulcans.

The ship was a cargo transport, with two pilot seats in the front and a large loading space in the back. They'd laid Trip on the deck, and Malcolm sat down next to him, watching dully as they wrapped the unconscious man in a blanket and tried to get him comfortable on the floor. Someone tucked a blanket around his own shoulders, and he raised his head, relieved when he saw that it was the Captain and not one of the Vulcans.

"You okay, Malcolm?" Archer asked quietly.

Malcolm nodded, yes, he was okay, or rather, he would be. At the moment, he wasn't so sure what was going on; all he knew was that he couldn't really talk much right now.

Archer seemed to understand. He rested a hand on Malcolm's shoulder, then got up again.

"Want to take the helm, Halan?" he asked one of the Vulcan men, and Malcolm felt a sudden, unexpected flare of resentment at the familiar address.

"I would like that, Captain."

No one had noticed his reaction, and Malcolm closed his eyes, leaning his head against the bulkhead behind him. He wasn't handling this well.

The whirring of a bio scanner caught his attention, and he opened his eyes again. T'Pol was kneeling on the deck next to Trip, scanner in hand.

"Commander Tucker's vitals are stable, Captain. His injuries appear to be superficial."

"They whipped him," Malcolm said softly. He wasn't sure why he said it. "He's been ill. He almost died, back at the factory. He can't take much more."

Archer looked at him, and Malcolm had a feeling that he wasn't making a lot of sense.

"It's okay, Malcolm," the Captain said, exchanging a glance with T'Pol. "Phlox is going to take care of him. He'll be fine."

A shudder ran through the deck as the ship's thrusters came alive, and Malcolm winced. His ribs hurt, a feeling as if two splintered pieces of wood were grating in his chest. T'Pol had noticed, and came over to run the scanner over him.

"Lieutenant Reed has two broken ribs and a contused jaw. There are no injuries to his lower body," she added to Archer, who appeared relieved. Malcolm was momentarily confused, until he remembered how they had found him, half-naked on the floor, Skonik's dagger poised and ready to do a little impromptu carving on his family jewels. Of course they'd wonder what else had happened to him.

"Do you require pain medication, Lieutenant?" T'Pol asked.

Malcolm shook his head. "No thank you." He didn't trust himself to say more, afraid that he'd start babbling again.

Archer gave him a worried look. "You sure?"

Malcolm nodded. The medication would do away with what little coherence he had left, and he didn't want that.

T'Pol moved on to Jackson, who pulled back a little as she pointed the scanner at him. "This is a scanning device," T'Pol said calmly. "I will use it to determine whether you are injured."

"I know what it is." Jackson's eyes narrowed into a hostile stare. "I'm not injured. They didn't get around to interrogating me."

T'Pol looked at Archer, who nodded slightly before turning to the young man.

"I'm Jonathan Archer," he introduced himself.

Jackson's features relaxed. "Jackson." It came out defiantly, as if he expected someone to object to his human name. "Thanks for... getting me out of there."

It was clear from his body language and tone that his thanks didn't include T'Pol or the two Vulcans at the helm. Archer paused, but didn't comment, settling for a mere nod.

"I assume you want to get rid of those things," he said, nodding at the restraints. As an answer, Jackson held out his shackled hands. The Captain pulled out a phase pistol and adjusted it to a short-range beam. Two quick cuts later, the discarded manacles were lying on the deck. Jackson eyed the weapon with interest. "Is that a disruptor?"

"It's called a phase pistol," Archer answered, moving over to free Malcolm's hands next. Malcolm could sense that Archer wasn't sure what to make of Jackson, even if he didn't outright resent him. It wasn't like the Captain to be so reserved.

Archer tugged Trip's blanket aside so he could cut through the engineer's shackles, pushing them away with a disgusted look once he was done. Trip's wrists were raw and bloodied; the manacles must have cut into his skin when he'd been suspended from the ceiling. Gently, the Captain tucked the blanket back around the still body.

"What about the collars?" Jackson asked.

"We'll take care of those back on the ship," Archer said, still intent on Trip. "I want to make sure that cutting them off won't trigger some sort of hidden mechanism."

Jackson moved too quickly for Archer to react and snatched the phase pistol from the Captain's hand, pointed the muzzle at his neck and cut through the collar with deft precision.

"What are you doing?" Archer made a grab for the pistol, but Malcolm was quicker. In a reflex response he didn't even think about, he twisted the weapon from Jackson's hand.

"Don't."

Jackson reached for the broken collar and pulled it off. "I'm not coming back with you."

Archer frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not coming back with you to your ship," Jackson repeated. "I don't belong there."

"You want to stay here, in the middle of the forest?" Archer eyed him closely. "How are you going to survive?"

"I'll be okay. I know where the runaways have their hideouts. I'll be safe there. And..." His voice halted slightly, and he glanced away. "I'll be with my people."

"What if you're recaptured?" Malcolm asked quietly. "They'd take you back to Silak."

"I won't be recaptured," Jackson said simply. Archer seemed to take the statement as mere bravado, but Malcolm knew that Jackson wasn't trying to boast. The man wouldn't go back into slavery, and if they caught him, he'd make sure to take his Vulcan captors with him, as many as he could.

The Captain didn't look happy, and was about to say something when the Vulcan in the pilot seat turned around.

"We are approaching the landing coordinates, Captain."

Archer nodded, his eyes still on Jackson. "Understood."

Now that he knew that it was safe, Malcolm suddenly wanted nothing more than to be rid of his own collar. He took care of Trip's first, aware of the Captain's eyes on him, watching him. Malcolm ignored the concerned look he was getting, pointed the phase pistol at his own neck and sliced through the thin metal band. Archer had no idea how the thing had chafed against his neck for weeks, how, during the first few days, he had always tried to push a finger underneath to get a relief from the constant feel of it on his skin. Once it was off, he wanted to fling it into a corner, and maybe give it a kick for good measure. Instead, he slowly laid it down on the deck and lowered the phase pistol again. Archer looked relieved.

"We are there, sir." It was the Vulcan again. Halan, Malcolm reminded himself, his name's Halan.

The ship shuddered as it touched the ground, the constant thrumming of the engine fading into silence.

Archer got up. "T'Pol?"

She consulted her handscanner. "The shuttle is where we left it, Captain. There are no human or Vulcan biosigns anywhere in the vicinity."

"Good."

Humid tropical air and the sound of animals screeching in the distance greeted them as they left the ship. Malcolm didn't find the energy to protest when Archer all but lifted him through the hatch; his ribs hurt like hell, and he knew that he would have stumbled if the Captain hadn't helped him. Halan had lifted Trip over his shoulder again, carrying him effortlessly as he followed T'Pol out of the hatch. Mevak brought up the rear, carrying the equipment.

They'd hidden the shuttle in a patch of thick brushwood, and it was only when Archer pointed it out that Malcolm noticed it at all.

"So that's what a human ship looks like," Jackson said quietly, after they'd made their way across the small clearing. Hesitant at first, he reached out and ran his hand over the silver hull, pausing over the black letters on the side.

"You could come with us," Archer said. "Enterprise could take you back to Earth, or any place you want to go. You don't have to stay here."

Jackson smiled, and for once, it didn't even look like a snarl. "Thanks. And I hope you get back safe. But it's like I said, I don't belong there."

Archer looked at him for a long moment before he nodded. "I understand."

"About the ship..." Jackson glanced back at the Vulcan transport. "I don't suppose you'll be needing it anymore."

Archer shook his head, and Jackson's smile widened into the familiar grin. "Good. I know some people who could make good use of a ship like that."

"Good luck," Malcolm said quietly, and Jackson's eyes came to rest on him, his amusement fading. He held out a hand, and Malcolm took it, clasping it firmly.

"You take care of yourself, Malcolm." A strange emotion crossed the hard face before it settled back into its usual guarded expression. "You're lucky, you know."

Malcolm did. "Thank you. Trip wouldn't have made it out of the factory if it hadn't been for you."

Jackson grinned and released his hand. "Tell him to watch his ass."

Malcolm nodded. "I will."

"Lieutenant," a calm voice said, and Malcolm turned to see T'Pol standing next to the open hatch of the shuttlepod. "We have to be on our way."

"I'm coming."

Inside Shuttlepod II, Malcolm's legs decided that they'd held out long enough, buckling under him as soon as Archer had closed the hatch behind him. One of the Vulcans, Mevak, caught him by the arm and helped him sit down on the bench.

"You should rest," he said softly.

Malcolm nodded, taking one last look out of the side window. The shuttle had already lifted off, but it wasn't past the tree level yet, and Malcolm could make out Jackson, shielding his eyes with one hand as he looked after them. In his other hand, there was the phase pistol Malcolm had dropped into the grass when Archer and T'Pol hadn't been looking.

He raised it in a silent greeting, and Malcolm lifted a hand in return. Then, the shuttle climbed higher, and Malcolm leaned back, resting his head against the wall.

They were going home.

TBC…

Aren't you glad I finally got the boys out ;)? Please let me know what you think!


	23. Chapter 23

Thank you for your kind reviews, I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

This chapter is for Gabi, who knows why :). Thanks again for a great beta job!

Enjoy!

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23

Bright sunlight bathed the yard, the sky was a brilliant blue, and he was in terrible pain. Blood seemed to be everywhere, on himself, the post, the dust at his feet. He had seen drops of it fly through the air, leaving bright red stains on Silak's uniform. That had earned him a particularly vicious blow.

Rebel, are you a rebel. He couldn't answer the question, although he didn't really remember why that was. It didn't seem to matter anymore what he told them.

Silak pointed at something on the ground, and he followed with his eyes. Something dark was huddled there, something lifeless, a bright red halo spreading around it on the ground.

Are you missing your _t'hyla_ already?

Could have saved him, remember that.

Remember that.

Malcolm, someone was saying, Malcolm.

A hand on his shoulder.

"Malcolm."

Bright light greeted him as he opened his eyes, and he instinctively shrank back from the voice.

"It's okay," the Captain said quietly. His hand was still on Malcolm's shoulder, pushing him back down on the bed. "It's okay, take it easy."

"Trip." The dark thing on the ground. There had been no life left in it. "Is- is he..."

"He's going to be okay. Phlox is taking care of him."

"What..." Malcolm wasn't sure what he had been about to ask, and trailed off. He remembered climbing into Shuttlepod II, someone taking his arm, leading him over to one of the benches. He had closed his eyes, just for a moment while he waited for his legs to stop trembling...

"You passed out on us, back on the shuttlepod."

"I..." There was something strange about his voice, Malcolm noticed, and reached for the place under his ear. Instead of the small bump under the skin, his fingers encountered a bandage.

"Phlox removed the translators," Archer said. "How are you feeling?"

Malcolm paused. How _was_ he feeling? Terrified, was the first thing that came to mind as he remembered the still figure on the ground. But it wasn't real, he reminded himself. Trip was okay. He was okay. They were back on Enterprise.

"Fine," he said. It was strange, the Vulcan echo to his voice being gone. "I'm fine, sir. Thank you."

For some reason he couldn't fathom, Archer was smiling. "Well, at least it looks like the doctor's medication is working."

Malcolm tried to sit up again, only to be pushed down by a gentle but determined hand. "How long-"

"You were out maybe two hours," Archer said. "Sorry that I woke you, but..." He glanced down briefly before he continued. "You weren't sleeping well."

The dream. He remembered only fragments of it – the yard, the whipping post, a dead body sprawled in the dust.

"What about Trip, sir?"

"He's right next to you." A curtain was pulled aside, and Malcolm turned his head to see Trip lying on the adjoining biobed, his bare chest and shoulders glistening with some sort of ointment. The harsh, artificial light did nothing to hide the numerous welts, old and new, marring his body, or the way his ribs were outlined against the skin.

"Ah, Mr. Reed!" Malcolm hadn't noticed Phlox standing at the foot of Trip's bed. "Back with the living, I see."

"How's Trip, doctor?" Malcolm asked. Trip's eyes were closed, his face pale and still like the face of the body Silak had shown him in his dream.

"Mr. Tucker is going to be fine, don't worry." The doctor came over to look at the monitor over Malcolm's bed. Whatever he saw there seemed to meet with his approval, and he smiled. "How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"

It was the second time in less than ten minutes that someone asked him, and Malcolm still wasn't sure what to say in response. The grating pain from his broken ribs was gone, a bulky stabilizing bandage holding them in place. Something, probably the medication, had spread a blanket over all the pains and aches of his body, a feeling that reminded him of his first day in sickbay after the minefield incident.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"Of course you are," Phlox said kindly. "Why don't you try and get some rest. Your body's still recovering from trauma."

"Doctor..." Archer's tone was apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I got a call from Starfleet Command. Malcolm needs to answer a few questions first."

"That's alright," Malcolm said before the doctor could object. "I'm not really tired."

It wasn't quite the truth, but he didn't want to go back to sleep, not now. Images of a sun-filled yard, of blood trickling through the dust still haunted his mind, and he had no desire to revisit the place any time soon.

Phlox didn't look happy, but he merely motioned for the Captain to take a seat on the chair between the two bio beds. "Not too many question, hmm, Captain? As I said, Mr. Reed needs his rest."

Archer nodded. "Understood."

Malcolm watched as the doctor slid a surgical drape under Trip's left foot, a tray with medical instruments waiting next to him on a table. The old bandages had been removed, and it was only now that Malcolm got a good look at the foot. He'd seen it look worse – at least the amputation stumps no longer appeared to be infected – but Phlox didn't seem too pleased with what he saw.

Archer seemed to have noticed as well. "He'll be able to walk, won't he?"

"Oh yes," Phlox said. "As for the two missing toes, they're easily replaced with prostheses if that is what Mr. Tucker wants. They won't affect his ability to walk in either case. I'm rather more concerned about the old fractures in his foot. They seem to have been treated with an osteo-repairing device that wasn't designed for human physiology, and haven't exactly knitted together well. There," he pointed at an image of Trip's foot on the bio monitor. Several small bones were highlighted red, none of them quite the shape they were supposed to be. "I'll have to reset every fractured bone, or Mr. Tucker may yet lose the use of his foot."

"The Healer at the holding pen," Malcolm said. "She had something that she called an osteo-restorer."

Phlox inclined his head. "Vulcan bone structure is more resilient. The device must have been designed for a rather aggressive therapy, which is fine for a Vulcan but can be quite detrimental when used on a human."

As the doctor set to work on Trip's foot, Malcolm noticed Archer's eyes on him. There was pity in his expression, among other things, and Malcolm didn't like it. He didn't need anyone to feel sorry for him.

"Sir," he said, and his voice sounded stiff even to his own ears.

Breaking the eye contact, Archer took out a padd and put it on the bedside table. "Whenever you're ready, Malcolm."

Malcolm nodded once, and the Captain reached out to switch on the recording mode. "For the record, this debriefing falls under Starfleet regulation 21 Beta, and is to be considered classified information," Archer said, dropping the formal tone when he turned back to Malcolm. "When did you and Commander Tucker first notice that there was something wrong with the shuttlepod's systems?"

Malcolm answered to the best of his knowledge, although the events Archer was asking him about seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago. The Captain asked only few questions, mostly about their crossing the "doorway", as he called it, and whether any of the Vulcans knew about its existence. Of course; after receiving Archer's report, Starfleet Command's first concern would be the possibility of an invasion.

"The Vulcans are putting the planet off limits," Archer said after he'd deactivated the recorder. "Forrest says that the High Command expressed their "concerns" after they'd read our first reports, which is as close to panic as they get. Halan and Mevak's ship received orders to stay in orbit and keep an eye on the anomaly. They're going to try and find a way to close the rift for good."

Malcolm was silent for a moment. "The Vulcans on the other side aren't interested in the anomaly. And T'Var isn't going to tell anyone about us."

"I know she won't. But Starfleet and the High Command feel they can't take any risks, and frankly, after what I saw over there, I tend to agree with them."

Malcolm nodded. Archer was right, of course.

"Captain," Phlox raised his head. "Mr. Reed needs to rest now."

"Of course." Archer got up, giving Malcolm's shoulder a quick squeeze. "It's good to have you back, Malcolm."

"It's good to be back," Malcolm said softly. "Thank you, Captain."

Archer left soon after that, and Malcolm lay back down on the bed, wondering if the Captain had noticed that nothing he'd said had really registered with Malcolm, the words flowing past him as if they didn't concern him at all. He'd answered mechanically, saying the things he knew the Captain wanted to hear, hiding behind the mask of Lieutenant Reed.

In his mind, sunlight filled a dusty yard, and tiny red flowers blossomed into life on the ground, beautiful in their own, bizarre way.

* * *

"Malcolm?"

The voice was only a whisper, but he heard it all the same. Phlox had dimmed the lights in the intensive care unit before he left, and for an idle moment, Malcolm wondered if hearing voices whisper his name in the dark was a good sign. Probably not, but his mind was far too sluggish to worry much about details. The voices could go on whispering, as long as they didn't make too much of a racket and let him sleep.

"Mal?"

Malcolm turned his head towards the voice, and realized that he hadn't imagined it, after all. Trip's eyes were open, his head turned towards Malcolm's bed.

"Hello Trip." There was a film of sweat on the other man's face, Malcolm noticed. Phlox had mentioned earlier that someone had developed a fever, but he didn't quite remember whether the doctor had been referring to him or Trip. Must have slipped his mind, along with the greater part of the conversation that had taken place.

"You lied," Trip said. "You told them you were a rebel."

"Yes."

"Bastard."

"Yes."

Silence followed after that, and Malcolm saw that Trip's hands on the blanket were trembling. Fever chills, or maybe just chills. The small room did seem strangely cool.

"Thanks," Trip said finally. Malcolm wasn't sure why he said it, and he had a feeling that Trip didn't really know, either.

"We're back," he said, not quite sequitur, and it elicited a chuckle from the other bed.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Smart arse."

"That's me."

They were silent again, and Malcolm wondered if Trip felt it too, that comfortable haze the medication seemed to have wrapped around his mind. It cushioned his thoughts and emotions, took away their sharp edge and at the same time brought them very close to the surface. Saying hello to Trip had left him with tears in his eyes, and he hadn't cried since... since some time, no need to think about it now. Reeds don't cry. Right, Father. Who had first established the Reed rules, anyway? Had a bunch of his ancestors met in a secret gathering place to pledge their loyalty to the Reed clan and its many commandments? The image of bearded, grave-looking men assembled around a stone tablet with the words "Reed Rules" chiseled into the soot-blackened surface appeared before his mental eye, and he blinked. Apparently, some of the doctor's medications tended to have rather strange side-effects.

"You awake, Mal?"

Trip's voice sounded slurred; it seemed that he, too, was feeling the effects of the happy juice.

"Yes," Malcolm said, wincing at his dreamy tone. "Yes," he repeated, more firmly this time. "I'm awake."

"Good," Trip said, then: "My foot feels kinda strange. Kinda numb."

"The doctor broke some of your bones," Malcolm said, and instantly regretted it.

"What?!"

"I mean, he had to reset some of the bones in your foot," Malcolm hastened to explain. "I suppose the anesthesia hasn't worn off yet."

"Oh."

There was some scrabbling from the other bed as Trip tried to get a look at his foot. He didn't quite manage to sit up, though, and eventually let himself fall back with a sigh.

"Damn."

"Phlox said your foot's going to be fine," Malcolm said, wondering whether he should tell him about the toe prostheses Phlox had mentioned. Maybe not. Trip wouldn't want to think about it right now, and Malcolm didn't trust himself to render the doctor's diagnosis correctly – not in his current state of mind, that was.

"The Cap'n and the others okay?" The question came quietly, and Malcolm sensed that he wasn't the only one whose emotions were close to the surface, medication-induced or not.

"Yes, they're fine. The Captain's been here to see you earlier."

"See us," Trip corrected gently.

"See us," Malcolm acceded.

"Jackson?"

"He decided to stay behind."

There was silence after that. Malcolm wondered where Jackson was now, if he had found refuge with the other runaways. Giving him the phase pistol hadn't exactly been Starfleet protocol, but Malcolm knew that he would do it again. In fact, he'd gladly leave all of his phase pistols to the humans hiding in the forest. Not something Lieutenant Reed would do, but Lieutenant Reed hadn't been there, in the sun-flooded yard under the blue sky.

"You think he's gonna make it?" Trip asked softly.

Malcolm nodded. "He's going to be alright."

He'd never been entirely sure whether he liked Jackson or not, but he knew a survivor when he saw one. The man would have made one hell of an addition to his Armory team.

Trip said nothing for a long time, and after a while Malcolm assumed that the other man had fallen asleep. He was about to drift off himself when a quiet voice brought him back.

"Kinda cold in here, isn't it?"

"Do you need an extra blanket?"

Trip eyed him for a moment. "Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks."

Malcolm sat up, the room blurring before his eyes. Patiently, he waited until his surroundings had slid back into focus, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Somewhere along the line, his knees seemed to have turned into gelatinous sponges, or at least that was what they felt like. Good thing that he wouldn't have to walk far. Slowly, tackling each step as an individual operation, he made his way over to the drawer where the doctor kept spare bedding, and took out two blankets. Same kind of blankets they'd had back on the shuttlepod, he noticed, almost amused. Well, maybe this time around they'd actually manage to stay warm.

He padded over to Trip's bed on bare feet, his legs protesting against the weight he was putting on them. Surely there was some sort of Reed rule stating that Reeds didn't stagger their way across a room, or wasn't there? Maybe they'd forgotten to carve that one into the stone tablet. In either case, there wasn't much he could do to help it. He had almost reached Trip's bed when he stumbled, or rather, when his wobbly knees decided that they'd deserved a break after all the hard work. He caught himself on the edge of the bed, clutching it tightly. If he fell down, he doubted he'd be able to pick himself up again.

Trip frowned at him. "I could've called Phlox, y'know."

Malcolm deposited one of the blankets on the engineer's stomach. "Well, there's no need to now."

"Smart ass."

"That's me."

They shared a grin, then Malcolm eyed the two meters' distance to his own bed. It might as well have been two hundred meters, for all the strength that was left in his legs.

"Mal?"

"Yes?"

Trip lifted a corner of his blanket. "Come on in."

"Trip..."

"I know you're not gonna make it back to your bed. Might as well stay here before you pass out on the floor."

Malcolm hesitated; there must be about two hundred Reed rules against this, etched into the often-cited stone tablet. Then, he decided that the Reeds, and everybody else adhering to stone-carved rules had better turn the other way, for there was no way he was going to make it back to his own bed.

With a final effort, he managed to heave himself onto the bed and stretched out with a sigh, careful not to bump against Trip's injured foot. Quite a tight squeeze, admittedly, but it was warm; a different warmth than back in the sun-filled yard. This kind of warmth, he was okay with.

As Malcolm drifted off, he was comfortably aware that next to him, Trip had already fallen asleep.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you for reviewing. We're getting to the end...

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24

Malcolm frowned, re-read what he had written, and, with a sigh, reached out to delete it. He'd only gotten as far as "Dear Mother and Father, I hope you are well", and if he proceeded like this, he'd finish the letter come next Christmas. He wasn't even sure why he had deleted the few words; eventually, that was how his letter would begin, anyway. There wasn't much else he could say, was there?

"Dear Mother and Father, I hope you are living it up"? Not bloody likely.

"Dear Mother and Father, I hope you aren't alienating the neighbours again and complaining about their lawn sprinklers"? That was true, but not something he could write in his first letter home since two years. Or in any letter, come to think of it.

"Dear Mother and Father, some things have happened and I'd like to tell you about them"? That was exactly what he couldn't write; Reed family communication didn't work that way. Exchanging information along the lines of "I've been posted to Enterprise" was acceptable (even if the posting to Enterprise was not), formal statements ("Captain Archer is a fine commanding officer") would also pass muster, and maybe even cautious good wishes like "keep well" or "kind regards". But there would be no faffing around with sentimentalities, and if there had been profound changes in someone's life, well, those were best kept to oneself, anyway, weren't they.

Captain Archer, of course, didn't understand this. He'd called Malcolm's parents while Malcolm had still been in sickbay, and had conveyed Mother's request to "tell the boy to write soon", along with an admonition of his own to send the letter as soon as possible. _"They were worried about you, Malcolm. I think they need to hear it from you that you're back safe and sound."_

Safe and sound. Well, he was safe, anyway, and working on the sound part. Phlox had released him the day before, and had sent him to rest in his quarters, under the condition that he reported to sickbay twice a day and didn't set a foot in the Armory. Malcolm wasn't too worried about the latter part. First acquaintances, then quite good friends, he and the doctor had developed their own way of reaching an understanding. "Not a foot in the Armory" translated as "you may drop by once or twice, just to check that things are in order", whereas "do not even think of going there, and that's an order" meant that Phlox actually wanted him to stay away from the place. He'd deferred to the doctor's orders in that he had only poked his head in, had shook hands and answered smiles before he'd left again to make his way to his quarters. Prior to his visit, Ensign Müller had sent him a status report on what had happened during the last three months, which was sitting, unopened, in Malcolm's inbox.

Three months. Not what you'd call a long time, actually. He'd been trained to survive under harsh conditions longer than that. And maybe that was just what he should have done, after he'd crawled ashore with Trip in tow. Should have found a shelter, a hiding place, and tried to survive. There was a chance that the Vulcans would have never discovered them. There was a chance Enterprise would have found them sooner. There was also a chance that Trip would have died in the wilderness.

Malcolm sighed. He knew there was no sense in going over different scenarios, picturing his own options, picturing Trip's. What he should do was finish the note to his parents – if he was honest with himself, he'd never intended to write a full-length letter – read Müller's report, and then catch some sleep. His bandaged ribs ached, and while he recognized it as a sign that they were healing, their constant dull throbbing "sucked the life outta him", as Trip would say. Sitting here writing and deleting the same nine words wasn't a productive way of spending his first evening out of sickbay.

_"You're not so brave now, are you, pau'kaluk?"_

The voice came out of nowhere, and almost made him flinch, although he knew – _knew_ – that there was no one in the room with him. T'Mai. And how right she'd been.

_Still is_, another voice said, and this voice he knew very well. Cynical, whiney, self-pitying, the coward was there, and more alive than ever. _There's no reason why you should feel the way you do. Out of touch. Empty. Tired, even when you wake up from ten hours of sound sleep. Hell, there's no reason why you shouldn't be **happy**. You realize that, don't you? You realize that you're the kind of person who looks for trouble like other people look for missing puzzle pieces, turning your life inside out until you've found another piece that will fit into the picture of misery you're putting together?_

He realized it, of course. He should be glad that he was back, that he still had his job – yes, there would be counseling and there would be a psych assessment, but he was confident that he'd be able to fake his way through them – and that, unlike Trip, he hadn't sustained any permanent damage. Even the scars on his back were easily removed by laser therapy, or so Phlox had said. It was when he'd seen the scars that the doctor had first suggested counseling sessions. Knowing that it was the easiest thing to do, Malcolm had shrugged non-committally, although he knew that he'd never tell any smiling Starfleet shrink on a screen about the sunny yard and the blood.

_"So you're saying the Vulcan whipped you until you screamed like a tortured cat, while his minions were waiting for him to be done so they could drag you off to the bunkhouse to gangbang you? How did that make you feel, Lieutenant?"_

_"Well, doctor, I'm not sure, but I think it made me feel like I would like to kill every one of them as slowly and painfully as possible."_

_"That is very interesting, Lieutenant, why don't we continue next week."_

No, he couldn't tell one of these people any more than he could tell his parents. Which didn't change the fact that he still had the message to finish. The Captain was right; he owed them at least that much. And if it didn't contain much more than "I hope you are well" and his best wishes, well, maybe that was for the best.

He'd written the first two lines of his note/letter when the door chime sounded.

"Come," he called, wondering if Phlox had decided to make a house-call. Surprise visits were another strategy the doctor used in their little warfare, amicable though it was.

It wasn't Phlox who had come to check on his captive, though. When he saw who was leaning in the doorframe, an almost shy grin on his face, Malcolm got up from his deskchair.

"You're supposed to be in sickbay."

Trip's grin became more confident. "An' you're supposed to be in bed. I remember the doctor tellin' you to get some rest. So, can I come in?"

"Please."

Trip walked into the room, or rather, limped inside. When Malcolm stepped forward to help him, he shook his head.

"Thanks, I'm good."

He wasn't "good", Malcolm saw that as Trip slowly made his way over to the small couch and sat down. It was obvious that even the exhaustion of walking from sickbay to Malcolm's quarters had pushed him to the limits, and that, when he'd arrived, it was either sitting down or falling down. His face was pale and drawn, and the loose-fitting pajamas underlined just how much weight he'd lost.

Noticing Trip's foot, Malcolm blinked. The engineer had pulled a giant white sock over the stabilizing cast, and the effect was rather strange, as if the foot and ankle were encased in an old-fashioned plaster.

"Are you supposed to walk around with that?"

Trip shrugged. "Phlox didn't say I couldn't."

Malcolm was fairly sure that Phlox had at least implied it, but he said nothing. He knew how it was with sickbay; sometimes, you just couldn't stay there, just had to be somewhere else. And if Trip had decided that his "somewhere else" was Malcolm's quarters, who was he to complain?

"Whatcha doin'?" Trip nodded at the screen.

"Writing a letter to my parents."

"Oh." Trip shifted a little on the couch. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't." Malcolm smiled ruefully. "In fact, there wasn't much to interrupt. I... I'm not sure what to say to them."

Trip nodded. "I know what you mean. Called my folks earlier today. It was kinda awkward."

"Yes?" Malcolm was surprised. The Tuckers had always seemed like the kind of family who shared everything from their peanut butter sandwiches to their deepest secrets.

Trip sighed. "It's just... it's not like I can tell them much. Most of it's classified, anyway. Cap'n said that Starfleet doesn't want the media to get hold of the thing."

Malcolm hadn't considered that side of things, but it made perfect sense. Relations between humans and Vulcans were always a touchy subject, and there were those who would jump at an opportunity like this. No doubt Starfleet and the High Command were doing their utmost to keep the story under wraps.

"I'm sure they were relieved to see you."

"Yeah. It was good to talk to them. I jus' wish they wouldn't worry so much."

Malcolm said nothing. He could see why the Tuckers had been worried, seeing their son like this. It wasn't only the injuries; in fact, Malcolm was willing to bet that Trip had omitted to tell them about the amputated toes. But there was something about Trip's expression, his eyes, that must have struck them immediately. Malcolm had seen it in the Captain's face when he'd come to visit them in sickbay. He and Trip had exchanged the usual small-talk about water-polo finals and mutual acquaintances back on Earth, both struggling visibly to keep their tone light and relaxed, but it hadn't felt real. It was almost like his fateful breakfast with the Captain a lifetime ago, when he'd felt too awkward even to touch the food on his plate. Worse, even, considering the close friendship Trip and the Captain shared. Back in sickbay, Archer hadn't been able to reach Trip, and it had hurt him. It must have hurt Trip's family, as well.

Out of touch. It seemed that he wasn't the only one.

"You know..." Trip's voice was very soft, so that Malcolm had to strain his ears to hear the words. "Back in the factory, this was all that kept me goin'." His gesture included Malcolm's quarters, the entire ship. "I kept thinkin', one day I'll be back here. With you, with the Cap'n, and everything's gonna be alright."

"Optimism," Malcolm said. There was no irony in his tone. It was long ago that he'd considered Trip's optimism "treacly", and had berated the man for it. He knew that without it, Trip would most likely not be sitting here.

"Yeah, I know. The thing is, though..." Trip trailed off, then laughed a little. "It's stupid, I guess."

Malcolm had a feeling that he knew quite well what "the thing" was. "It's not alright, is it?"

Trip slowly shook his head. "It's like you're the only one who knows that I'm really back. Everybody else... the way they're lookin' at me..."

Malcolm nodded. It had been the same when Travis and Hoshi had come to see him in sickbay. Hoshi had kissed him and Travis had punched him – he still sported the bruise on his upper arm – but he hadn't missed those imperceptible glances passing between them, the way their smiles slipped a bit when he wasn't looking their way. Trip had put it quite aptly; somehow, to them he wasn't quite back, not the way it mattered.

"Maybe," he said softly, "we aren't back yet. Not entirely."

He expected to receive a strange look in return, but Trip only nodded. "Maybe not."

Silence followed after that, then Malcolm said something he hadn't expected to say at all. "You can come here whenever you like, you know."

Trip looked at him, and Malcolm's cheeks grew warm. He smirked to conceal his reaction. "Any time. As far as I'm informed, rumor has it that I don't sleep."

Trip grinned. "Yeah, I heard that one." He became serious again, his eyes never leaving Malcolm as he said, "Same here, y'know. Whenever you like."

Malcolm nodded, knowing that Trip wouldn't take his silent acknowledgment as rejection. And he was glad. Back in sickbay, he'd found just how bad the nightmares could be, and how much it helped not to be alone when they came.

The comm beeped, and Malcolm, glad to have something to do with his hands, turned to his console.

"Reed here."

"This is Phlox." The doctor sounded somewhat annoyed, and Malcolm felt a grin tugging at his mouth. Maybe Trip and Phlox should devise their own code of understanding about sickbay protocol. "You don't happen to have seen the Commander, Lieutenant?"

"He's not in sickbay?" Malcolm asked in his best innocent tone.

"No..." There was a sigh from the comm speaker. "It seems that he decided to leave while I was in the messhall."

"Really?" His voice held just the right amount of righteous indignation.

"If you see him, could you tell him to return here, please? I haven't discharged him yet."

"Of course, doctor."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Phlox out."

Malcolm swiveled around in his desk chair to face a grinning Trip. "You do know that I'll be accused of connivance when he finds out?"

"Yep." Trip leaned back on the couch and folded his arms behind his head. "But he won't come here to look for me, at least not any time soon. You sounded real convincing."

"Covert ops is my field of expertise."

Trip laughed. "So you don't mind if I stay a while?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Not at all. Here," he picked up a blanket from his bed and tossed it to Trip, who caught it with one hand.

"Thanks. Mind if I borrow your music player?"

Malcolm handed him the requested item, and Trip settled back on the couch, plugged the earphones into place and closed his eyes. Malcolm watched him for another moment before he turned back to his desk and the waiting letter on the screen.

He read what he'd written so far, and smiled a little. Yes, he'd finish the letter, but not now. Someone else waiting to hear from him, too, and as it happened, he'd thought of just the thing to tell her.

Malcolm paused a little, then began to type.

_"Dear Maddy, I'm sorry I haven't written earlier..."_

* * *

"_Istau'e kupi'hafauer'si'mun weh'tor_." Hoshi smiled and raised her hand, her fingers parted to form a V. _"Herboshere'si kai."_

_You will be missed_. Malcolm wasn't really surprised to find that he understood what she was saying. He'd heard enough spoken Vulcan during the last few months to brush up what little he'd remembered from his Academy course, and add several new phrases to his vocabulary.

_"I'tora, duhsu!"_ , for example - do it now, idiot. Or "_Taflaue kai_" - you're going to get it. And, of course, the all-time favorite, "_pau'kaluk_".

He wondered what the two young Vulcans would say if he used the word in front of them, what Hoshi would say, before he caught himself. This wasn't right. The senior crew had assembled at the airlock to say goodbye to the two Vulcans - to Halan and Mevak, and he knew that he had all reason to be grateful to the two men. If not for them, it would have taken Enterprise a lot longer to cross the doorway. Maybe the Captain would have been forced to give up at some point, ordered to leave by Starfleet Command, and Trip and he would have...

Malcolm tried for a smile as he turned to the taller of the two men, Halan.

"Thank you for your help," he said. "We appreciate it." It didn't come out as cordially as he'd intended; in fact, he sounded rather cool. Nor was he the only one who had noticed, from the looks he was getting. Only Trip kept his eyes to himself, studying the deck at his feet.

"I mean, we're very grateful," Malcolm added, but he knew that the damage had been done.

"Yeah," Trip said quietly. "Thanks. And good luck with your mission."

The two Vulcan men didn't seem offended, although they must have noticed that something strange was going on. "Thank you," Halan said. "May you have a safe journey, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm sensed that he wasn't only referring to Enterprise's next mission. "You too."

"Well," Captain Archer said, in a tone he often used when launching into a speech. "On behalf of Starfleet and my crew, I'd like to thank you for your help and dedication. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for you." Malcolm caught the Captain's meaningful look, and accepted it by lowering his eyes. Archer turned back to Halan and Mevak. "Before you leave, there's something we'd like to give you. An old Earth custom," he added when he noticed their puzzled expressions. "With humans, it's customary to give someone a going-away present."

Travis stepped forward, a box wrapped in tissue paper in his hands. "We hope you'll like it," he said.

Halan accepted the box with a bewildered look. "It is... aesthetically pleasing."

"According to human tradition, gifts are wrapped in paper before they are handed over," T'Pol explained calmly. "The receiver is required to tear it off the box."

Mevak blinked. "Why is it necessary to tear it?"

Hoshi smiled. "It's not an obligation. Sometimes the person who receives the gift is so excited about the present that they can't wait to see what's inside. It's okay to unwrap it slowly, though, if you like."

"We shall honor your tradition," Halan answered solemnly. He proceeded to tear the wrapping paper into small strips, handing them to Mevak, who carefully collected them. Malcolm saw Travis and Hoshi exchange a smile.

Eventually, Halan had removed the last bit of paper and opened the box.

"Spak'eti," he said, and there was more than a hint of excitement in his voice. Malcolm wasn't sure what Halan was talking about, until the man took a lengthy brown parcel, topped with a red bow, out of the box.

"Chef's compliments," Travis smiled. "We thought you might like to take some with you, after you enjoyed them so much."

Halan put the spaghetti back into the box. "Thank you. I shall be anticipating a very enjoyable meal."

"_We_ shall anticipate it," Mevak said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I will actually compel you to share them with me, _ashalik_."

Halan raised an eyebrow at him before reaching into the box again. This time, he took out a padd, also decorated with a bow.

"All the Bond movies ever made," Hoshi said, and her grin threatened to reach dimensions worthy of Dr. Phlox. "You can switch off the Vulcan subtitles if they're bothering you."

Mevak scrolled through the padd, eyebrows twitching. "I have not had the chance to see "Casino Royale" yet."

"There are sixty-five of them, so you'll be busy for a while," Travis said.

This time, it was Halan who almost smiled. "I shall ensure that he still leaves our quarters from time to time," he said, earning himself an indignantly raised eyebrow from the other man.

The Vulcan mask slipped back into place as Halan turned to T'Pol. "We thank you for your expertise and guidance, _T'Sai_," he said, and T'Pol inclined her head, acknowledging the respectful address.

"Your contribution to this mission was essential," she said. Malcolm knew that out of her mouth, this was very high praise indeed. "I shall make sure that the High Command is informed about your efforts."

The two Vulcans bowed respectfully to her, then to Captain Archer. "Thank you for your hospitality, Captain." They turned to Travis and Hoshi, and Malcolm was surprised to see the stiff formality fading.

"I hope we can meet again," Halan said. "Thank you for the present."

Travis grinned. "You're welcome."

"Don't forget to write," Hoshi added, and Mevak inclined his head.

"We shall not forget."

A signal from the airlock indicated that the _Vuhnaya_ was ready to take her officers aboard. Before they went to the airlock, however, Mevak took something out of his pocket and, to Malcolm's utter surprise, held it out to him.

"Please take it," the Vulcan said, and there was something in his eyes Malcolm couldn't quite identify. "I have been told that Enterprise will head to Vulcan next to confer with the High Council. I would like you to have this."

Malcolm hesitated, then took the item he was being offered. It was a small, Vulcan-style datachip.

Mevak looked at Trip. "_Aksh'lze_," he said quietly. Then, he turned away and went to Halan, who had been watching them silently.

"_Trasha'a'e'si, ashalik_," he said, following his partner to the open airlock.

They watched as the two Vulcans left, travel bags in one hand, goodbye presents in the other. Malcolm felt the small, hard square of the chip in his hand, shrugging when he noticed Trip's questioning look. He had no idea what the Vulcan had given him, and how it was connected with Enterprise's going to Vulcan.

"There is a place on Vulcan," T'Pol said quietly. Hoshi gave her a curious glance, but, since the Subcommander's words were clearly meant for Malcolm and Trip, didn't stop to listen.

"What kind of place?" Trip asked.

"I assume humans would call it a temple," T'Pol answered. "It does not have a religious purpose, however. It is an ancient and sacred place, and there are powers there that many modern Vulcans prefer not to acknowledge. Yet, in times of need, they are still sought."

With that, she left, and Malcolm looked after her, realizing for the first time that she, above all others, had helped to rescue them and bring them back to Enterprise. It had been her plan, her scientific expertise, her calm and controlled judgment, and all the time, she had stayed in the background - observing, leading, assisting, not expecting anything in return because what she was doing was only logical.

"There goes someone else who deserves a thank-you," Trip said quietly, reading Malcolm's mind not for the first time.

Malcolm nodded. "Yes," he said. "She does."

TBC…

Epilogue soon to come up! Please let me know what you think!


	25. Chapter 25

Thank you very much for reading and reviewing this, and an extra thank you with pineapple on top to my regular reviewers –hugs-! I had a lot of fun posting this!

On to the final installment – enjoy!

* * *

Epilogue

It was evening on Vulcan.

The sun hadn't set yet behind the rugged silhouette of the Llangon Mountains, but it had retreated far enough to take the scorching mid-day heat with it. Cautiously, the creatures of the desert were coming out of their hiding places, still lingering in the shadows, distrustful of the sudden relief from the swelter. Under sun-bleached rocks and inside thorny _g'teth _bushes, life was stirring, preparing for another night of scrambling, scrabbling and scuttling for what little nourishment this world granted its inhabitants.

Inside the sanctuary of Mount Seleya, preparations were also made, but not for the struggle for survival in a merciless environment. The _Shakhu_ of Seleya no longer had to worry about such things, although, in a not-too-distant past, they too had suffered if the _e'shua_ spirits decided to send a heat wave or dry up the sanctuary's well. Today, technology, though well-concealed, provided water and energy for the desert dwellers, and allowed visitors to arrive in a transport rather than taking the long, stone-strewn footpath to the top of the mountain.

They had been the only human passengers on the transport, and when Malcolm had stepped out of the aircraft, he had understood why. This was no place for tourists, and it was only Mevak's written statement that had secured for them the permission to come here. Few humans had seen the sanctuary, and most of those had been dignitaries who had come here to show their respect for Vulcan tradition.

An elderly Vulcan, presumably a guide of sorts, had led the little group of four Vulcans and two humans into the entrance hall where he asked them to wait until the _Shakhu_ had finished their evening ritual. Malcolm snuck a look around the place, but all he saw were walls and pillars made of polished red stone, and several unobtrusive alcoves where flames flickered in the twilight. Obviously, the ritual was held in a secluded area, sheltered from the eyes of outsiders. The Vulcans who had arrived with them stood like living statues, waiting as they had been instructed to do. Next to him, Trip shifted his feet, and Malcolm suppressed a smile. He knew Trip, and knew that a Vulcan temple in the middle of the desert wasn't exactly a place where the other man would feel comfortable. Nor was he himself quite at ease. Here, in the atrium of a building older than most of Earth's existing civilizations, on a mountain that had cast the same shadow even thousands of years ago, the presence of the ancient "powers" T'Pol had spoken of was almost palpable. With a little imagination – and Malcolm possessed quite a bit of it, even if most people wouldn't have thought so – you could feel them watching you, brushing past you in the dry desert breeze. Probing, albeit tentatively. Malcolm had never been prone to superstition, but this wasn't a question of believing or not. There was something there, and he had to take only one look at Trip's face to know that the other man felt it, too.

A curtain rustled, and the old Vulcan guide reappeared, carrying a nervously flickering torch. The entrance hall was filled with an orange glow from the setting sun, and there was no need for an additional source of light, so Malcolm assumed that the torch was part of a ritual, as so many of the things were in this place.

"_Sanoi_," the Vulcan said in his brittle, ancient voice. "_Zahaltora'e, dorli be'hai'la'u_."

Malcolm activated his UT earpiece, and saw Trip doing the same. He might understand the Vulcan even without it, but he would have to concentrate entirely on what was being said, and that wasn't why he had come here.

"If the distinguished guests will kindly proceed this way."

Slowly, the old man began to shuffle across the atrium, the flame of his torch almost translucent in the sunlight. The Vulcans kept their eyes straight ahead, as if they had seen the place hundreds of times before, and Malcolm refrained from staring at the strange reliefs and statuettes they passed.

Their guide walked at a pace universal of the frail and elderly, and it took their small procession the better part of five minutes to cross the hall. On the far wall, there was an opening cut into the red stone, hung with a simple cloth curtain. The guide stepped in front of it.

"The Hall of _C'thia_," he announced. "Surak and his _Shakhu_ assembled in there for their evening meditations."

He pulled the curtain aside with a wrinkled hand, and silently invited his guests to follow him. The Hall of _C'thia_ surprised Malcolm. He had expected something spacious, intimidating by its sheer size, but the room behind the curtain was hardly larger than the messhall back on Enterprise. To their right, a panorama window opened to the desert, and a brush of warm wind on his face told him that there was no glass pane separating the room from the world outside.

"Wow," Trip said quietly, and Malcolm had to agree. Seleya was a high mountain, and the window looked out over kilometers of desert landscape, sharply silhouetted mountain ranges alternating with wide stretches of red sand.

"The Forge," the old guide said from behind. "One of the most barren areas on Vulcan. Nothing can survive there for more than a few days."

Malcolm didn't doubt it. There was something forbidding about the landscape, as if something out there warned the onlooker not to come too close. Surak and his followers had come here every day, maybe to remind themselves of the cruelty their world was capable of. Malcolm was sure that the presence he felt in here, the gentle tugging at the periphery of his mind, would be gone in an instant if he ventured out there. There might be other... things, out there in the Forge, but none of them would be gentle. And they would make short work of a defenseless human mind.

"Look," Trip said, and Malcolm turned around. The engineer was standing in front of a faded fresco on the wall next to the window. It showed a Vulcan who seemed deep in contemplation, his eyes focused on a meditation flame in front of him. Behind him, another man was approaching, almost hidden in the shadows, and Malcolm's trained eye immediately recognized the scenario of an assassination. Between the two men, an animal was crouched on the ground, ears erect and lips peeled back to reveal a row of sharp teeth.

"Surak and one of his followers," the old guide said. He had stepped up next to them, his torch casting a halo of light on the picture. "There is a legend that S'task, the first of Surak's _Shakhu_, began to doubt the teachings of _C'thia_. He believed that power and force would bring glory to Vulcan, not logic and the embracing of diversity. Surak rejected his ideas, so S'task decided to murder him and lead the _Shakhu_ himself."

Malcolm stood very still. The guide's story took him back to the dark cell in Silak's holding pen, where Jackson had told him that there was no such thing as a human starship.

_"S'task, their great philosopher. Killed his peace-loving teacher, Surak or something, and led all Vulcans to wealth and glory. They've been the terror of the quadrant ever since."_

"What happened?" Trip asked.

The guide raised a knotty finger and pointed at the animal on the floor. "Surak had a _sehlat_ that he held in high esteem. His name was Krintu."

The old Vulcan must have noticed something on Malcolm's face which he mistook for incomprehension.

"A _sehlat_ is a highly dangerous predator, but it can be gentled when it is treated with kindness. The legend has it that Krintu saved Surak's life. He saw S'task and sensed that he had come to do harm to the Teacher, so he sprang at him and threw him to the ground. The other _Shakhu_ arrived in time to take away S'task's _lirpa_ and free him from Krintu's fangs. It is said that Surak stopped them when they wanted to kill their fellow _Shakhu_ for what he had done. "Offer them peace, then you will have peace." He helped S'task up and asked him what he intended to do now. S'task went to the Forge, and did not return. Four days later, Surak found his follower's lifeless body on the Plains of Blood. Some believe that S'task gave up his _katra_ to the desert winds. The _sehlat_ never left the Teacher's side until he died, and ever since, "Krintu" has meant "protector" in our language."

Malcolm looked at the _sehlat_ on the fresco. It was in the center of the picture, and the artist had painted it with great attention to detail – the coiled muscles under the thick fur, the sharp claws, the alert eyes. _Krintu_. Somehow, it sounded different in here.

"They picked the right name, after all," Trip said softly, a trace of amusement in his voice.

Malcolm said nothing, but he found that something had lifted from his mind, something he didn't miss at all.

The guide gave them a curious look, but he didn't ask when no explanation was forthcoming. Instead, he turned to the Vulcan visitors, who were contemplating the other frescos.

"If the distinguished guests will follow me."

There was another curtained door on the other side of the room, and the old man paused before it.

"The Hall of Ancient Thought," he said. "The decision to go in there must not be made lightly. Young humans..." He turned to Malcolm and Trip. "You may find it an unsettling place. If you wish to remain outside..."

Malcolm shook his head. "It's why we have come here." He didn't mention the promise, but it seemed that he didn't have to. The guide gave him a long look, then inclined his head and pulled the curtain aside.

"Please, follow me."

Unlike the Hall of _C'thia_, the room was windowless, lit only by the restless flames of the torches mounted on the walls. There were no pictures here and no statuettes, only the smooth stone floor and a huge pillar in the middle of the room. Shadows flitted across the walls and floor, chasing each other, and at times, there was something so strange about their movements that it seemed hard to believe that shadows was all they were.

Something brushed against his mind, and he drew a sharp breath. The touch had been gentle, almost soothing, as if they, whatever they were, knew that he would be startled at first.

A hand reached for his, and Malcolm knew that Trip had felt them, too. It helped, not having to face them alone, and he took a deep breath before he opened his mind to their presence.

_I have come here because of a promise I made._

_You are welcome, child._ Their voices were calm, but far from cold. _Do not fear. You will not come to harm in here._

Malcolm felt Trip relax a little, and found some of his own anxiety lifting. They were telling the truth, he knew that.

_There is pain in you._

_Let us help._

He hesitated. _I have made a promise..._

_Yes. We know. You have come here to bring us an _istaya_, and we will honor it. T'Var is fortunate to have a friend such as you._

_How...?_

Gentle amusement drifted through his mind. _You are not required to do anything. We have seen her wish in your mind, and we shall not forget._

They reached out to him, and at first he shrank away. They waited, patiently, and finally, he opened his mind again, allowed their touch. And it didn't hurt. Far from it.

_We cannot change what has been done. But you are strong, both of you. You will find strength in each other._

There was a feeling like a feather brushing against his mind as they pulled back. Before they left, however, one of the voices spoke again, almost like an afterthought.

_T'Var is not the only one who is fortunate._

With that, they were gone. Malcolm glanced at Trip, who was looking rather dazed.

"Wow."

Malcolm smiled briefly, then smoothed his face back into a blank expression. They were in a Vulcan sacred shrine, after all.

"Wow indeed."

They didn't stay long after that, as the guide was insistent that they leave in time to receive the Stone of _J'kah_ from the _Shakhu_ Elder.

Before they left, however, Malcolm once more turned his mind back to the voices, and discovered that they were still there, listening.

_Thank you._

There was a brush of kindness, a glimpse of welcome and acceptance, and then they were gone.

The desert wind felt warm on his skin as they left, heading home.

--

The End

I'd love to know what you think!


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